American  Authors 


IX 


MARSE  CHAN. 

By  THOMAS  NHJ.SON  PAGE. 

MR. BIXBY'S  CHRISTMAS  VISITOR. 

By  CHARLES  S.GAGE. 

ELI. 

By  C.H.WHITE. 

YOUNG  STRONG  OF  "THE  CLARION." 
By  MILICENT  WASRBURN  SHINN. 

HOW  OLD  WIGGINS  WORE  SHIP. 

By  CAPTAIN  ROLAND  T.  COFFIN. 

11  —  MAS  HAS  COME." 

By  LEONARD  KIP. 


l 

7 


Stories  by  American  Authors. 

IX. 


%*  The  Stories  in  this  volume  are  pro- 
tected by  copyright,  and  are  printed  here 
by  the  authority  of  the  authors  or  their 
representatives. 


Stories  by 


American  Authors 


IX. 


MARSE  CHAN. 

By  THOMAS  NELSON  PAGE. 

MR.  BIXBY'S  CHRISTMAS  VISITOR. 

By  CHARLES  S.  GAGE. 

ELI. 

By  C.  H.  WHITE. 

YOUNG  STRONG  OF  "THE  CLARION." 

By  MILICENT  WASHBURN  SHINN. 

HOW  OLD  WIGGINS  WORE   SHIP. 

By  CAPTAIN  ROLAND  T.  COFFIN. 

" MAS  HAS  COME." 

By  LEONARD  KIP. 


NEW   YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
1885 


COPYRIGHT,  1885,  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


BURR  PRINTING  HOUSB,  NEW  YORK. 


MARSE  CHAN. 

A   TALE    OF   OLD   VIRGINIA. 
BY  THOMAS  NELSON  PAGE. 


ONE  afternoon,  in  the  autumn  of  1872,  I  was 
riding  leisurely  down  the  sandy  road  that 
winds  along  the  top  of  the  water-shed  between  two 
of  the  smaller  rivers  of  eastern  Virginia.  The  road 
I  was  travelling,  following  "  the  ridge"  for  miles, 
had  just  struck  me  as  most  significant  of  the  char- 
acter of  the  race  whose  only  avenue  of  communica- 
tion with  the  outside  world  it  had  formerly  been. 
Their  once  splendid  mansions,  now  fast  falling 
to  decay,  appeared  to  view  from  time  to  time,  set 
back  far  from  the  road,  in  proud  seclusion  among 
groves  of  oak  and  hickory  now  scarlet  and  gold 
with  the  early  frost.  Distance  was  nothing  to  this 
people  ;  time  was  of  no  consequence  to  them. 
They  desired  but  a  level  path  in  life,  and  that  they 

**»  Century  Magazine,  April,  1884. 


6  MARSE    CHAAT. 

had,  though  the  way  was  longer  and  the  outer 
world  strode  by  them  as  they  dreamed. 

I  was  aroused  from  my  reflections  by  hearing 
some  one  ahead  of  me  calling,  "  Heah  ! — heah — 
whoo-oop,  heah  !" 

Turning  the  curve  in  the  road,  I  saw  just  before 
me  a  negro  standing,  with  a  hoe  and  a  watering-pot 
in  his  hand.  He  had  evidently  just  gotten  over 
the  "  worm-fence  "  into  the  road,  out  of  the  path 
which  led  zigzag  across  the  "  old"  field  "  and  was 
lost  to  sight  in  the  dense  growth  of  sassafras. 
When  I  rode  up,  he  was  looking  anxiously  back 
down  this  path  for  his  dog.  So  engrossed  was  he 
that  he  did  not  even  hear  my  horse,  and  1  reined 
in  to  wait  until  he  should  turn  around  and  satisfy 
my  curiosity  as  to  the  handsome  old  place  half  a 
mile  off  from  the  road. 

The  numerous  out-buildings  and  the  large  barns 
and  stables  told  that  it  had  once  been  the  seat  of 
wealth,  and  the  wild  waste  of  sassafras  that  covered 
the  broad  fields  gave  it  an  air  of  desolation  that 
greatly  excited  my  interest.  Entirely  oblivious  of 
my  proximity,  the  negro  went  on  calling,  "  Whoo- 
oop,  heah  !"  until  along  the  path,  walking  very 
slowly  and  with  great  dignity,  appeared  a  noble- 
looking  old  orange  and  white  setter,  gray  with 
age,  and  corpulent  with  excessive  feeding.  As 
soon  as  he  came  in  sight,  his  master  began  : 

"  Yes,  dat  you  !  You  gittin'  deaf  as  well  as 
bline,  I  s'pose  !  Kyarnt  heah  me  callin',  I  reckon  ? 
Whyn't  yo'  come  on,  dawg  ?" 


MARSE    CHAN.  7 

The  setter  sauntered  slowly  up  to  the  fence  and 
stopped  without  even  deigning  a  look  at  the 
speaker,  who  immediately  proceeded  to  take  the 
rails  down,  talking  meanwhile  : 

"  Now,  I  got  to  pull  down  de  gap,  I  s'pose  ! 
Yo'  so  sp'ilt  yo'  kyahn'  hardly  walk.  Jes'  ez  able 
to  git  over  it  as  I  is  !  Jes'  like  white  folks — t'ink 
'cuz  you's  white  and  I's  black,  I  got  to  wait  on  yo' 
allde  time.  Ne'm  mine,  I  ain'  gwi'  do  it  !" 

The  fence  having  been  pulled  down  sufficiently 
low  to  suit  his  dogship,  he  marched  sedately 
through,  and,  with  a  hardly  perceptible  lateral 
movement  of  his  tail,  walked  on  down  the  road. 
Putting  up  the  rails  carefully,  the  negro  turned 
and  saw  me.  • 

"  Sarvent,  marster,"  he  said,  taking  his  hat  off. 
Then,  as  if  apologetically  for  having  permitted 
a  stranger  to  witness  what  was  merely  a  family 
affair,  he  added  :  "  He  know  I  don'  mean  nothin' 
by  what  I  sez.  He's  Marse  Chan's  dawg,  an*  he's 
so  ole  he  kyahn  git  long  no  pearter.  He  know 
I'se  jes'  prodjickin'  wid  'im." 

"  Who  is  Marse  Chan  ?"  I  asked  ;  "  and  whose 
place  is  that  over  there — and  the  one  a  mile  or  two 
back — the  place  with  the  big  gate  and  the  carved 
stone  pillars  ?" 

"  Marse  Chan,"  said  the  darkey,  "  he's  Marse 
Channin' — my  young  marster  ;  an'  dem  places — 
dis  one's  Weall's,  an'  de  one  back  dyar  wid  de 
rock  gate-pos's  is  ole  Cun'l  Chahmb'lin's.  Dey 
don'  nobody  live  dyar  now,  'cep'  niggers.  Arfter 


8  MARSE    CHAN. 

de  war  some  one  or  nudder  bought  our  place,  but 
his  name  done  kind  o'  slipped  me.  I  nuvver  hearn 
on  'im  befo';  I  think  dey's  half-strainers.  I  don' 
ax  none  on  'em  no  odds.  I  lives  down  de  road 
heah,  a  little  piece,  an"  I  jes'  steps  down  of  a  even- 
in'  and  looks  arfter  de  graves." 

"  Well,  where  is  Marse  Chan  ?"  I  asked. 

"Hi!  don'  you  know?  Marse  Chan,  he  went 
in  de  army.  I  wuz  wid  'im.  Yo'  know  he  warn' 
gwine  an'  lef  Sam." 

"Will  you  tell  me  all  about  it?"  I  said,  dis- 
mounting. 

Instantly,  and  as  if  by  instinct,  the  darky 
stepped  forward  and  took  my  bridle.  I  demurred  a 
little  ;  but  with  a  bow  that  would  -have  honored 
old  Sir  Roger,  he  shortened  the  reins,  and  taking 
my  horse  from  me,  led  him  along. 
^  Now  tell  me  about  Marse  Chan,"  I  said. 

"  Lawd,  marster,  hit's  so  long  ago,  I'd  a' most 
forgit  all  about  it,  ef  I  hedn'  been  wid  him  ever 
sence  he  wuz  born.  Ez  'tis,  I  remembers  it  jes* 
like  'twuz  yistiddy.  Yo'  know  Marse  Chan  an* 
me — we  wuz  boys  togedder.  I  wuz  older' n  he 
wuz,  jes'  de  same  ez  he  wuz  whiter' n  me.  I  wuz 
born  plantin*  corn  time,  de  spring  arfter  big  Jim 
an'  de  six  steers  got  washed  away  at  de  upper  ford 
right  down  dyar  b'low  de  quarters  ez  he  wuz  a 
bringin'  de  Chris'mas  things  home  ;  an'  Marse 
Chan,  he  warn'  born  tell  mos'  to  der  harves'  arfter 
my  sister  Nancy  married  Cun'l  Chahmb'lin's 
Torm,  'bout  eight  years  arfterwoods. 


MARSE    CHAN.  9 

"  Well,  when  Marse  Chan  wuz  born  dey  vvuz  de 
grettes'  doin's  at  home  you  ever  did  see.  De  folks 
all  hed  holiday,  jes'  like  in  de  Chris'mas.  Ole 
marster  (we  didn'  call  'im  oh  marster  tell  arfter 
Marse  Chan  wuz  born — befo'  dat  he  wuz  jes'  de 
marster,  so) — well,  ole  marster,  his  face  fyar  shine 
wid  pleasure,  an'  all  de  folks  wuz  mighty  glad, 
too,  'cause  dey  all  loved  ole  marster,  and  aldo' 
dey  did  step  aroun'  right  peart  when  ole  marster 
wuz  lookin'  at  'em,  dyar  warn'  nyar  han'  on  de 
place  but  what,  ef  he  wanted  anythin',  would  walk 
up  to  de  back  poach,  an'  say  he  warn'  to  see  de 
marster.  An'  ev'ybody  wuz  talkin'  'bout  de 
young  marster,  an'  de  maids  an'  de  wimmens  'bout 
de  kitchen  wuz  sayin'  how  'twuz  de  purties'  chile 
dey  ever  see  ;  an'  at  dinner-time  de  mens  (all  on 
'em  hed  holiday)  come  roun'  de  poach  an'  ax  how 
de  missis  an'  de  young  marster  wuz,  an'  ole 
marster  come  out  on  de  poach  an'  smile  wus'n  a 
'possum,  an'  sez,  '  Thankee  !  Bofe  doin'  fust  rate, 
boys  ;'  an'  den  he  stepped  back  in  de  house,  sort 
o'  laughin'  to  hisse'f,  an'  in  a  minute  he  come  out 
ag'in  wid  de  baby  in  he  arms,  all  wrapped  up  in 
flannens  an'  things,  an'  sez,  '  Heah  he  is,  boys.' 
All  de  folks  den,  dey  went  up  on  de  poach  to  look 
at  'im,  drappin'  dey  hats  on  de  steps,  an'  scrapin' 
dey  feets  ez  dey  went  up.  An'  pres'n'y  ole 
marster,  lookin'  down  at  we  all  chil'en  all  packed 
togedder  down  deah  like  a  parecel  o'  sheep-burrs, 
cotch  sight  o'  me  (he  knowed  my  name,  'cause  I 
use'  to  hole  he  hoss  fur  'im  sometimes  :  but  he 


io  MARSE   CHAN. 

didn'  know  all  de  chil'en  by  name,  dey  wuz  so 
many  on  'em),  an'  he  sez,  'Come  up  heah.'  So  up 
I  goes  tippin',  skeered  like,  an'  old  marster  sez, 
'  Ain'  you  Mymie's  son?'  '  Yass,  seh,'  sez  I. 
'Well,'  sez  he,  'I'm  gwine  to  give  you  to  yo' 
young  Marse  Channin'  to  be  his  body-servant,' 
an'  he  put  de  baby  right  in  my  arms  (it's  de  truth 
I'm  tellin'  you  !),  an'  yo'  jes'  ought  to  a-heard  de 
folks  sayin',  '  Lawd  !  marster,  dat  boy'll  drap  dat 
chile  ! '  '  Naw,  he  won't,'  sez  marster  ;  '  I  kin 
trust  'im.'  And  den  he  sez  :  '  Now,  Sam,  from 
dis  time  you  belong  to  yo'  young  Marse  Channin'  ; 
I  wan'  you  to  tek  keer  on  'im  ez  long  ez  he  lives. 
You  are  to  be  his  boy  from  dis  time.  An'  now,1 
he  sez,  '  carry  'im  in  de  house.'  An'  he  walks 
arfter  me  an'  opens  de  do's  fur  me,  an'  I  kyars 
'im  in  my  arms,  an'  lays  'im  down  on  de  bed. 
An'  from  dat  time  I  wuz  tooken  in  de  house  to  be 
Marse  Channin's  body-servant. 

"  Well,  you  nuvver  see  a  chile  grow  so. 
Pres'n'y  he  growed  up  right  big,  an'  ole  marster 
sez  he  must  have  some  edication.  So  he  sont  'im 
to  school  to  ole  Miss  Lawry  down  dyar,  dis  side  o' 
Cun'l  Chahmb'lin's,  an'  I  use'  to  go  'long  wid 
'im  an'  tote  he  books  an'  we  all's  snacks  ;  an' 
when  he  larnt  to  read  an'  spell  right  good,  an'  got 
'bout  so-o  big,  old  Miss  Lawry  she  died,  an'  ole 
marster  said  he  mus'  have  a  man  to  teach  'im  an' 
trounce  'im.  So  we  all  went  to  Mr.  Hall,  whar 
kep'  de  school-house  beyant  de  creek,  an'  dyar  we 
went  ev'y  day,  'cep'  Sat'd'ys  of  co'se,  an'  sich  days 


MARSE    CHAN.  n 

ez  MarseChan  din'  warn'  go,  an'  ole  missis  begged 
'im  off. 

"  Hit  wuz  down  dyar  Marse  Chan  fust  took 
notice  o'  Miss  Anne.  Mr.  Hall,  he  taught  gals  ez 
well  ez  boys,  an'  Cun'l  Chahmb'lin  he  sont  his 
daughter  (dat's  Miss  Anne  I'mtalkin'  about).  She 
wuz  a  leetle  bit  o'  gal  when  she  fust  come.  Yo' 
see,  her  ma  wuz  dead,  an*  ole  Miss  Lucy  Chahm- 
b'lin, she  lived  wid  her  brudder  an'  kep'  house  for 
'im  ;  an'  he  wuz  so  busy  wid  politics,  he  didn' 
have  much  time  to  spyar,  so  he  sont  Miss  Anne  to 
Mr.  Hall's  by  a  'ooman  wid  a  note.  When  she 
ccrme  dat  day  in  de  school-house,  an'  all  de  chil'en 
looked  at  her  so  hard,  she  tu'n  right  red,  an'  tried 
to  pull  her  long  curls  over  her  eyes,  an'  den  put 
bofe  de  backs  of  her  little  han's  in  her  two  eyes, 
an'  begin  to  cry  to  herse'f.  Marse  Chan  he  was 
settin'  on  de  een'  o'  de  bench  nigh  de  do',  an'  he 
jes'  reached  out  an'  put  he  arm  roun'  her  an' 
drawed  her  up  to  'im.  An'  he  kep'  whisperin'  to 
her,  an'  callin'  her  name,  an'  coddlin'  her  ;  an' 
pres'n'y  she  took  her  han's  down  an'  begin  to 
laugh. 

"  Well,  dey  'peared  to  tek'  a  gre't  fancy  to  each 
udder  from  dat  time.  Miss  Anne  she  warn' 
nuthin'  but  a  baby  hardly,  an'  Marse  Chan  he  wuz 
a  good  big  boy  'bout  mos'  thirteen  years  ole,  I 
reckon.  Hows'ever,  dey  sut'n'y  wuz  sot  on  each 
udder  an'  (yo'  heah  me  !)  ole  marster  an'  Cun'l 
Chahmb'lin  dey  'peared  to  like  it  'bout  well  ez 
de  chil'en.  Yo'  see  Cun'l  Chahmb'lin's  place 


J2  MARSE   CHAN. 

j'ined  ourn,  an'  it  looked  jes'  ez  natural  fur  dem 
two  chil'en  to  marry  an'  mek  it  one  plantation, 
ez  it  did  fur  de  creek  to  run  down  de  bottom  from 
our  place  into  Cun'l  Chahmb'lin's.  I  don'  rightly 
think  de  chil'en  thought  'bout  gittin'  married,  not 
den,  no  mo'n  I  thought  'bout  marryin'  Judy  when 
she  wuz  a  little  gal  at  Cun'l  Chahmb'lin's,  runnin' 
'bout  de  house,  huntin'  fur  Miss  Lucy's  spectacles  ; 
but  dey  wuz  good  frien's  from  de  start.  Marse 
Chan  he  use'  to  kyar  Miss  Anne's  books  fur  her 
ev'y  day,  an'  ef  de  road  wuz  muddy  or  she  wuz 
tired,  he  use'  to  tote  her  ;  an'  'twarn'  hardly  a  day 
passed  dat  he  didn'  kyar  her  some'n'  to  school — 
apples  or  hick'y  nuts,  or  some'n'.  He  wouldn'  let 
none  o'  de  chil'en  tease  her,  nudder.  Heh  !  One 
day,  one  o'  de  boys  poked  he  finger  at  Miss  Anne, 
an'  arfter  school  Marse  Chan  he  axed  'im  'roun' 
hine  -de  school-house  out  o'  sight,  an'  ef  he  didn' 
whop  'im  ! 

"  Marse  Chan,  he  wuz  de  peartes'  scholar  ole 
Mr.  Hall  hed,  an'  Mr.  Hall  he  wuz  mighty  proud 
o'  'im.  I  don'  think  he  use'  to  beat  'im  ez  much 
ez  he  did  de  udders,  aldo'  he  wuz  de  head  in  all 
debilment  dat  went  on,  jes'  ez  he  wuz  in  sayin'  he 
lessons. 

'"  Heh  !  one  day  in  summer,  jes'  'fo'  de  school 
broke  up,  dyah  come  up  a  storm  right  sudden, 
an'  riz  de  creek  (dat  one  yo'  cross'  back  yonder), 
an'  Marse  Chan  he  toted  Miss  Anne  home  on  he 
back.  He  ve'y  off'n  did  dat  when  de  parf  wuz 
muddy.  But  dis  day  when  dey  come  to  de  creek, 


MARSE    CHAN.  13 

it  had  done  washed  all  de  logs  'way.  'Twuz  still 
mighty  high,  so  Marse  Chan  he  put  Miss  Anne 
down,  an'  he  took  a  pole  an'  waded  right  in.  Hit 
took  'im  long  up  to  de  shoulders.  Den  he  waded 
back,  an'  took  Miss  Anne  up  on  his  head  an' 
kyared  her  right  over.  At  fust  she  wuz  skeered  ; 
but  he  tol'  her  he  could  swim  an'  wouldn'  let  her 
git  hu't,  an'  den  she  let  'im  kyar  her  'cross,  she 
hol'in'  his  han's.  I  warn'  'long  dat  day,  but  he 
sut'n'y  did  dat  thing. 

"  Ole  marster  he  wuz  so  pleased  'bout  it,  he  giv' 
Marse  Chan  a  pony  ;  an'  Marse  Chan  rode  'im  to 
school  de  day  arfter  he  come,  so  proud,  an'  sayin' 
how  he  wuz  gwine  to  let  Anne  ride  behine  'im  ; 
an'  when  he  come  home  dat  evenin'  he  wuz  walkin'. 
'  Hi  !  where's  yo'  pony  ? '  said  ole  marster.  '  I 
give  'im  to  Anne,'  says  Marse  Chan.  '  She  liked 
'im,  an' — I  kin  walk.'  '  Yes,'  sez  ole  marster, 
laughin',  '  I  s'pose  you's  already  done  giv'  her 
yo'se'f,  an'  nex'  thing  I  know  you'll  be  givin'  her 
this  plantation  and  all  my  niggers.' 

"  Well,  about  a  fortnight  or  sich  a  matter  arfter 
dat,  Cun'l  Chahmb'lin  sont  over  an'  invited  all  o' 
we  all  over  to  dinner,  an'  Marse  Chan  wuz  'spressly 
named  in  de  note  whar  Ned  brought  ;  an'  arfter 
dinner  he  made  ole  Phil,  whar  wuz  his  ker'ige- 
driver,  bring  roun'  Marse  Chan's  pony  wid  a  little 
side-saddle  on  'im,  an'  a  beautiful  little  hoss  wid  a 
bran'-new  saddle  an'  bridle  on  'im  ;  an'  he  gits 
up  an'  meks  Marse  Chan  a  gre't  speech,  an'  pre- 
sents 'im  de  little  hoss  ;  an'  den  he  calls  Miss 


14  MARSE    CHAN. 

Anne,  an'  she  comes  out  on  de  poach  in  a  little 
ridin'  frock,  an'  dey  puts  her  on  her  pony,  an' 
Marse  Chan  mounts  his  hoss,  an'  dey  goes  to  ride, 
while  de  grown  folks  is  a-laughin'  an'  chattin'  an' 
smokin'  dey  cigars. 

"  Dem  wuz  good  ole  times,  marster — de  bes' 
Sam  ever  see!  Dey  wuz,  in  fac'!  Niggers  didn' 
hed  nothin'  't  all  to  do — jes'  hed  to  'ten'  to  de 
feedin',  an'  cleanin'  de  hosses,  an'  doin'  what  de 
marster  tell  'em  to  do  ;  an'  when  dey  wuz  sick, 
dey  had  things  sont  'em  out  de  house,  an'  de  same 
doctor  come  to  see  'em  whar  'ten'  to  de  white  folks 
when  dey  wuz  po'ly.  Dyar  warn'  no  trouble  nor 
nothin'. 

"Well,  things  tuk  a  change  arfter  dat.  Marse 
Chan  he  went  to  de  bo' din*  school,  whar  he  use'  to 
write  to  me  constant.  Ole  missis  use'  to  read  me 
de  letters,  an'  den  I'd  git  Miss  Anne  to  read  'em 
ag'in  to  me  when  I'd  see  her.  He  use'  to  write  to 
her  too,  an*  she  use'  to  write  to  him  too.  Den 
Miss  Anne  she  wuz  sont  off  to  school  too.  An'  in 
de  summer  time  dey'd  bofe  come  home,  an'  yo' 
hardly  knowed  whether  Marse  Chan  lived  at  home 
or  over  at  Cun'l  Chahmb'lin's.  He  wuz  over 
dyah  constant.  'Twuz  always  ridin'  or  fishin' 
down  dyah,  in  de  river  ;  or  sometimes  he'  go  over 
dyah,  an'  'im  an'  she'd  go  out  an*  set  in  de  yard 
onder  de  trees  ;  she  settin'  up  mekin'  out  she  wuz 
knittin'  some  sort  o'  bright-cullored  some'n',  wid 
de  grarss  growin'  all  up  'g'inst  her,  an'  her  hat 
th'owed  back  on  her  neck,  an'  he  readin'  to  her 


MARSE    CHAN.  15 

out  books  ;  an'  sometimes  dey'd  bofe  read  out  de 
same  book,  fust  one  an'  den  todder.  I  use'  to  see 
'em  !  Dat  wuz  when  dey  wuz  growin'  up  like. 

"  Den  ole  marster  he  run  for  Congress,  an'  ole 
Cun'l  Chahmb'lin  he  wuz  put  up  to  run  'g'inst  ole 
marster  by  de  Dimicrats  ;  but  ole  marster  he  beat 
'im.  Yo'  know  he  wuz  gwine  do  dat  !  Co'se  he 
wuz  !  Dat  made  ole  Cun'l  Chahmb'lin  mighty 
mad,  and  dey  stopt  visitin'  each  udder  reg'lar,  like 
dey  had  been  doin'  all  'long.  Den  Cun'l  Chahm- 
b'lin he  sort  o'  got  in  debt,  an''  sell  some  o'  he 
niggers,  an'  dat's  de  way  de  fuss  begun.  Dat's 
whar  de  lawsuit  cum  from.  Ole  marster  he  didn' 
like  nobody  to  sell  niggers,  an"  knowin'  dat  Cun'l 
Chahmb'lin  wuz  sellin'  o'  his,  he  writ  an'  offered 
to  buy  his  M'ria  an'  all  her  chil'en,  'cause  she 
hed  married  our  Zeek'yel.  An'  don'  yo'  t'ink, 
Cun'l  Chahmb'lin  axed  ole  marster  mo'  'n  th'ee 
niggers  wuz  wuth  fur  M'ria.  Befo*  old  marster 
bought  her,  dough,  de  sheriff  cum  an'  levelled  on 
M'ria  an'  a  whole  parecel  o'  udder  niggers.  Ole 
marster  he  went  to  de  sale,  an'  bid  for  'em  ;  but 
Cun'l  Chahmb'lin  he  got  some  one  to  bid  'g'inst  ole 
marster.  Dey  wuz  knocked  out  to  ole  marster 
dough,  an'  den  dey  hed  a  big  lawsuit,  an'  ole 
marster  wuz  agwine  to  co't,  off  an'  on,  fur  some 
years,  till  at  lars'  de  co't  decided  dat  M'ria  be- 
longed to  ole  marster.  Ote  Cun'l  Chahmb'lin  den 
wuz  so  mad  he  sued  ole  marster  for  a  little  strip 
o'  Ian'  down  dyah  on  de  line  fence,  whar  he  said 
belonged  to  'im.  Evy'body  knowed  hit  belonged 


1 6  MARSE    CHAN. 

to  ole  marster.  Ef  yo'  go  down  dyah  now,  I  kin 
show  it  to  yo'.  inside  de  line  fence,  whar  it  bed 
done  bin  ever  since  long  befo'  ole  marster  wuz 
born.  But  Cun'l  Chahmb'lin  wuz  a  mons'us  per- 
severin1  man,  an'  ole  marster  he  wouldn'  let 
nobody  run  over  'im.  No,  dat  he  wouldn'!  So 
dey  wuz  agwine  down  to  co't  about  dat,  fur  I  don' 
know  how  long,  till  ole  marster  beat  'im. 

"  All  dis  time,  yo'  know,  Marse  Chan  wuz  agoin' 
back' ads  an'  for'ads  to  college,  an'  wuz  growed 
up  a  ve'y  fine  young  man.  He  wuz  a  ve'y  likely 
gent'man  !  Miss  Anne  she  hed  done  mos'  growed 
up,  too — wuz  puttin'  her  hyar  up  like  ole  missis 
use'  to  put  hers  up,  an'  't  wuz  jes'  ez  bright  ez  de 
sorrel's  mane  when  de  sun  cotch  on  it,  an'  her 
eyes  wuz  gre't  big  dark  eyes,  like  her  pa's,  on'y 
bigger  an'  not  so  fierce,  an'  'twarn'  none  o'  de 
young  ladies  ez  purty  ez  she  wuz.  She  an"  Marse 
Chan  still  set  a  heap  o'  sto'  by  one  'nudder,  but  I 
don'  t'ink  dey  wuz  easy  wid  each  udder  ez  when 
he  used  to  tote  her  home  from  school  on  his  back. 
Marse  Chan  he  use'  to  love  de  ve'y  groun'  she 
walked  on,  dough,  in  my  'pinion.  Heh  !  His  face 
'twould  light  up  whenever  she  come  into  chu'ch, 
or  anywhere,  jes'  like  de  sun  hed  come  th'oo  a 
chink  on  it  suddenly. 

"  Den  ole  marster  lost  he  eyes.  D'  yo'  ever  hyah 
'bout  dat?  Heish  !  Didn'  yo'  ?  Well,  one  night 
de  big  barn  cotch  fire.  De  stables,  yo'  know, 
wuz  under  de  big  barn,  an'  all  de  hosses  wuz  in 
dyah.  Hit  'peared  to  me  like  'twarn'  no  time  befo' 


MARSE   CHAAr.  17 

all  de  folks  an'  de  neighbors  dey  come,  an'  dey 
wuz  a-totin'  water,  an'  a-tryin'  to  save  de  po' 
critters,  an'  dey  got  a  heap  on  'em  out  ;  but  de 
ker'ige-hosses  dey  wouldn'  come  out,  an'  dey  wuz 
a-runnin'  back'ads  an'  for' ads  inside  de  stalls, 
a-nikerin'  an'  a-screan>in',  like  dey  knowed  dey 
timehed  come.  Yo'  could  heah  'em  so  pitiful,  an' 
pres'n'y  ole  marster  said  to  Ham  Fisher  (he  wuz 
de  ker'ige-driver),  '  Go  in  dyah  an'  try  to  save 
'em  ;  don'  let  'em  bu'n  to  death.'  An'  Ham  he 
went  right  in.  An'  jes'  arfter  he  got  in,  de  shed 
whar  it  hed  fus'  cotch  fell  in,  an'  de  sparks  shot 
'way  up  in  de  air  ;  an'  Ham  didn'  come  back,  an' 
de  fire  begun  to  lick  out  under  de  eaves  over  whar 
de  ker'ige  hosses'  stalls  wuz,  an'  all  of  a  sudden 
ole  marster  tu'ned  and  kissed  ole  missis,  who  wuz 
standin'  nigh  him,  wid  her  face  jes'  ez  white  ez  a 
sperit's,  an',  befo'  anybody  knowed  what  he  wuz 
gwine  do,  jumped  right  in  de  do',  an'  de  smoke 
come  po'in'  out  behine  'im.  Wellj  seh,  I  nuvver 
'specks  to  hyah  tell  Judgment  sich  a  soun'  ez  de 
folks  set  up.  Ole  missis  she  jes'  drapt  down  on 
her  knees  in  de  mud  an'  prayed  out  loud.  Hit 
'peared  like  her  pra'r  wuz  heard  ;  for  in  a  minit, 
right  out  de  same  do',  kyarin'  Ham  Fisher  in  his 
arms,  come  ole  marster,  wid  his  clo'es  all  blazin'. 
Dey  flung  water  on  'im,  an'  put  'im  out  ;  an',  ef 
you  b'lieve  me,  yo'  wouldn'  a-knowed  'twuz  ole 
marster.  Yo'  see,  he  hed  find  Ham  Fisher  done 
fall  down  in  de  smoke  right  by  de  ker'ige-hoss' 
stalls,  whar  he  sont  him,  an'  he  hed  to  tote  'im 


1 8  MARSE   CHAN. 

back  in  his  arms  th'oo  de  fire  what  hed  done  cotch 
de  front  part  o'  de  stable,  an'  to  keep  de  flame 
from  gittin'  down  Ham  Fisher's  th'ote  he  hed  tuk 
off  his  own  hat  and  mashed  it  all  over  Ham  Fisher's 
face,  an'  he  hed  kep'  Ham  Fisher  from  bein'  so 
much  bu'nt  ;  but  he  wua  bu'nt  dreadful  !  His 
beard  an'  hyar  wuz  all  nyawed  off,  an'  his  face  an' 
han's  an'  neck  wuz  scorified  terrible.  Well,  he  jes' 
laid  Ham  Fisher  down,  an'  then  he  kind  o'  stag- 
gered for'ad,  an'  ole  missis  ketch'  'im  in  her 
arms.  Ham  Fisher,  he  warnt  bu'nt  so  bad,  an" 
he  got  out  in  a  month  or  two  ;  an'  arfter  a  long 
time,  ole  marster  he  got  well,  too  ;  but  he  wuz 
always  stone  bline  arfter  dat.  He  nuvver  could 
see  none  from  dat  night. 

"  Marse  Chan  he  corned  home  from  college 
toreckly,  an'  he  sut'n'y  did  nuss  ole  marster 
faithful — jes'  like  a  'ooman.  Den  he  took  charge 
o'  de  plantation  arfter  dat  ;  an'  I  use'  to  wait  on 
'im  jes'  like  when  we  wuz  boys  togedder  ;  an' 
sometimes  we'd  slip  off  an'  have  a  fox-hunt,  an* 
he'd  be  jes1  like  he  wuz  in  ole  times,  befo'  ole 
marster  got  bline,  an'  Miss  Anne  Chahmb'lin  stopt 
comin'  over  to  our  house,  an'  settin'  onder  de 
trees,  readin'.out  de  same  book. 

"  He  sut'n'y  wuz  good  to  me.  Nothin'  nuvver 
made  no  diffunce  'bout  dat.  He  nuvver  hit  me  a 
lick  in  his  life — an'  nuvver  let  nobody  else  do  it, 
nudder. 

"  I  'members  one  day,  when  he  wuz  a  leetle  bit 
o'  boy,  ole  marster  hed  done  tole  we  all  chil'en  not 


MARSE    CHAN.  19 

to  slide  on  de  straw-stacks  ;  an'  one  day  me  an' 
Marse  Chan  thought  ole  marster  hed  done  gone 
'way  from  home.  We  watched  him  git  on  he 
boss  an'  ride  up  de  road  out  o'  sight,  an'  we  wuz 
out  in  de  field  a-slidin'  an'  a-slidin',  when  up  comes 
ole  marster.  We  started  to  run  ;  but  he  hed  done 
see  us,  an'  he  called  us  to  come  back  ;  an'  sich  a 
whoppin'  ez  he  did  gi'  us  ! 

"  Fust  he  took  Marse  Chan,  an'  den  he  teched 
me  up.  He  nuvver  hu't  me,  but  in  co'se  I  wuz 
a-hollerin'  ez  hard  ez  I  could  stave  it,  'cause  I 
knowed  dat  wuz  gwine  mek  him  stop.  Marse  Chan 
he  hed'n  open  he  mouf  long  ez  ole  marster  wuz 
tunin'  'im  ;  but  soon  ez  he  commence  warmin'  me 
an'  I  begin  to  holler,  Marse  Chan  he  bu'st  out 
cryin',  an*  stept  right  in  befo'  ole  marster,  an' 
ketchin'  de  whop,  sed  : 

"  '  Stop,  seh  !  Yo'  sha'n't  whop  'im  ;  he 
b'longs  to  me,  an'  ef  you  hit  'im  another  lick  I'll 
set  'im  free  !' 

"  I  wish  yo*  hed  see  ole  marster.  Marse  Chan 
he  warn'  mo'n  eight  years  ole,  an'  dyah  dey  wuz — 
ole  marster  stan'in'  wid  he  whop  raised  up,  an' 
Marse  Chan  red  an'  cryin',  hol'in'  on  to  it,  an' 
sayin'  I  b'longst  to  'im. 

"  Ole  marster,  he  raise'  de  whop,  an'  den  he 
drapt  it,  an'  broke  out  in  a  smile  over  he  face,  an' 
he  chuck'  Marse  Chan  onder  der  chin,  an'  tu'n 
right  roun'  an'  went  away,  laughin'  to  hisse'f,  an' 
I  heah'  'im  tellin'  ole  missis  dat  evenin',  an'  laugh- 
in'  'bout  it. 


20  MARSE    CHAN. 

"  'Twan'  so  mighty  long  arfter  dat  when  dey 
fust  got  to  talkin'  'bout  de  war.  Dey  wuz  a-dic- 
tatin'  back'ads  an'  for' ads  'bout  it  fur  two  or  th'ee 
years  'fo'  it  come  sho'  nuff,  you  know.  Ole 
marster,  he  wuz  a  Whig,  an'  of  co'se  Marse  Chan 
he  tuk  after  he  pa.  Cun'l  Chahmb'lin,  he  wuz  a 
Dimicrat.  He  wuz  in  favor  of  de  war,  an'  ole 
marster  and  Marse  Chan  dey  wuz  agin'  it.  Dey 
wuz  a-talkin*  "bout  it  all  de  time,  an'  purty  soon 
Cun'l  Chahmb'lin  he  went  about  ev'vywhar  speak- 
in'  an'  noratin'  'bout  Ferginia  ought  to  secede  ; 
an'  Marse  Chan  he  wuz  picked  up  to  talk  agin' 
'im.  Dat  wuz  de  way  dey  come  to  fight  de  duil. 
I  sut'n'y  wuz  skeered  fur  Marse  Chan  dat  mawnin', 
an*  he  was  jes'  ez  cool  !  Yo'  see,  it  happen  so  : 
Marse  Chan  he  wuz  a-speakin'  down  at  de  Deep 
Creek  Tavern,  an'  he  kind  o'  got  de  bes'  of  ole 
Cun'l  Chahmb'lin.  All  de  white  folks  laughed  an' 
hoorawed,  an'  ole  Cun'l  Chahmb'lin — my  Lawd  ! 
I  t' ought  he'd  'a'  bu'st,  he  wuz  so  mad.  Well,  when 
it  come  to  his  time  to  speak,  he  jes'  light  into 
Marse  Chan.  He  call '  im  a  traitor,  an'  a  ab'litionis', 
an'  I  don*  know  what  all.  Marse  Chan,  he  jes' 
kep'  cool  till  de  ole  Cun'l  light  into  he  pa.  Ez 
soon  ez  he  name  ole  marster,  I  seen  Marse  Chan 
sort  o'  lif  up  he  head.  D'  yo'  ever  see  a  hoss  rar 
he  head  up  right  sudden  at  night  when  he  see 
somethin'  comin'  to'ds  'im  from  de  side  an'  he 
don'  know  what  'tis  ?  Ole  Cun'l  Chahmb'lin,  he 
went  right  on.  He  said  ole  marster  hed  taught 
Marse  Chan  ;  dat  ole  marster  wuz  a  wuss  ab'lition- 


MARSE    CHAN.  21 

is'  dan  he  son.  I  looked  at  Marse  Chan,  an'  sez  to 
myse'f  :  '  Fo'  Gord  !  old  Cun'l  Chahmb'lin  better 
min',  an'  I  hedn'  got  de  wuds  out,  when  ole  Cun'l 
Chahmb'lin  'cuse'  ole  marster  o'  cheatin'  'im  out 
o'  he  niggers,  an'  stealin'  piece  o'  he  Ian' — dat's 
de  Ian'  I  tole  you  'bout.  Well,  seh,  nex'  thing  I 
knovved,  I  heahed  Marse  Chan — hit  all  happen 
right  'long  togedder,  like  lightnin'  an'  thunder 
when  dey  hit  right  at  you — I  heah  'im  say  : 

"  Cun'l  Chahmb'lin,  what  you  say  is  false,  an' 
yo'  know  it  to  be  so.  You  have  wilfully  slandered 
one  of  the  pures'  an'  nobles'  men  Gord  ever  made, 
an'  nothin'  but  yo'  gray  hyars  protects  you.' 

"  Well,  ole  Cun'l  Chahmb'lin,  he  ra'ed  an'  he 
pitch'd.  He  said  he  wan'  too  ole,  an'  he'd  show 
'im  so. 

'  Ve'y  well,'  says  Marse  Chan. 

"  De  meetin'  broke  up  den.  I  wuz  hol'in  de 
hosses  out  dyar  in  de  road  by  de  een'  o'  de  poach,  an' 
I  see  Marse  Chan  talkin'  an'  talkin'  to  Mr.  Gordon 
an'  anudder  gent'man,  an'  den  he  come  out  an' 
got  on  de  sorrel  an'  galloped  off.  Soon  ez  he  got 
out  o'  sight,  he  pulled  up,  an'  we  walked  along 
tell  we  come  to  de  road  whar  leads  off  to'ds  Mr. 
Barbour's.  He  wuz  de  big  lawyer  o'  de  country. 
Dar  he  tu'ned  off.  All  dis  time  he  hedn'  sed  a 
wud,  'cep'  to  kind  o'  mumble  to  hisse'f  now  an' 
den.  When  we  got  to  Mr.  Barbour's,  he  got 
down  an'  went  in.  Dat  wuz  in  de  late  winter  ;  de 
folks  wuz  jes'  beginnin'  to  plough  fur  corn.  He 
stayed  dyar  'bout  two  hours,  an'  when  he  come  out 


22  AT  ARSE    CHAN. 

Mr.  Barbour  come  out  to  de  gate  wid  'im  an'  shake 
ban's  arfter  he  got  up  in  de  saddle.  Den  we  all 
rode  off.  'Twuz  late  den — good  dark  ;  an'  we  rid 
ez  hard  ez  we  could,  tell  we  come  to  de  ole  school- 
house  at  ole  Cun'l  Chahmb'lin's  gate.  When  we 
got  dar  Marse  Chan  got  down  an'  walked  right 
slow  'roun'  de  house.  Arfter  lookin'  'roun'  a  little 
while  an'  tryin'  de  do'  to  see  ef  it  wuz  shet,  he 
walked  down  de  road  tell  he  got  to  de  creek.  He 
stop'  dyar  a  little  while  an'  picked  up  two  or  three 
little  rocks  an'  frowed  'em  in,  an'  pres'n'y  he  got 
up  an'  we  come  on  home.  Ez  he  got  down,  he 
tu'ned  to  mean',  rubbin'  de  sorrel's  nose,  said: 
'  Have  'em  well  fed,  Sam  ;  I'll  want  'em  early  in 
de  mawnin'.' 

"  Dat  night  at  supper  he  laugh  an'  talk,  an'  he 
set  at  de  table  a  long  time.  Arfter  ole  marster 
went  to  bed,  he  went  in  de  charmber  an'  set  on  de 
bed  by'im  talkin'  to  'im  an'  tellin'  'im  'bout  de 
meetin'  an'  ev'ything  ;  but  he  never  mention  ole 
Cun'l  Chahmb'lin's  name.  When  he  got  up  to 
come  out  to  de  office  in  de  yard,  whar  he  slept,  he 
stooped  down  an'  kissed  'im  jes'  like  he  wuz  a 
baby  layin'  dyar  in  de  bed,  an'  he'd  hardly  let  ole 
missis  go  at  all.  I  knowed  some'n  wuz  up,  an' 
nex'  mawnin'  I  called  'im  early  befo'  light,  like  he 
tole  me,  an'  he  dressed  an'  come  out  pres'n'y  jes' 
like  he  wuz  goin'  to  chu'  ch.  I  had  de  hosses  ready, 
an'  we  went  out  de  back  way  to'ds  de  river.  Ez 
we  rode  along,  he  said  : 

"  '  Sam,  you  an'  I  wuz  boys  togedder,wa'n't  we?' 


MARSE   CHAN.  23 

"  '  Yes,'  sez  I,  '  Marse  Chan,  dat  we  wuz.' 

"  '  You  have  been  ve'y  faithful  to  me,'  sez  he, 
'  an'  I  have  seen  to  it  that  you  are  well  provided 
fur.  You  wan'  to  marry  Judy,  I  know,  an'  you'll 
be  able  to  buy  her  ef  you  want  to.' 

"  Den  he  tole  me  he  wuz  goin'  to  fight  a  duil, 
an*  in  case  he  should  git  shot,  he  had  set  me  free 
an'  giv'  me  nuff  to  tek  keer  o'  me  an'  my  wife  ez 
long  ez  we  lived.  He  said  he'd  like  me  to  stay  an' 
tek  keer  o'  ole  marster  an'  ole  missis  ez  long  ez 
dey  lived,  an'  he  said  it  wouldn'  be  very  long,  he 
reckoned.  Dat  wuz  de  on'y  time  he  voice  broke — 
when  he  said  dat  ;  an'  I  couldn'  speak  a  wud,  my 
th'oat  choked  me  so. 

"When  we  come  to  de  river,  we  tu'ned  right  up 
de  bank,  an'  arfter  ridin'  'bout  a  mile  or  sich  a  mat- 
ter, we  stopped  whar  dey  wuz  a  little  clearin'  wid 
elder  bushes  on  one  side  an'  two  big  gum  trees  on  de 
udder,  an*  de  sky  wuz  all  red,  an'  de  water  down 
to'ds  whar  de  sun  wuz  comin'  wuz  jes*  like  de  sky. 

"  Pres'n'y  Mr.  Gordon  he  come  wid  a  'hogany 
box  "bout  so  big  'fore  'im,  an'  he  got  down,  an* 
Marse  Chan  tole  me  to  tek  all  de  hosses  an'  go 
'roun'  behine  de  bushes  whar  I  tell  you  'bout — 
off  to  one  side  ;  an'  'fore  I  got  'roun'  dar,  ole 
Cun'l  Chahmb'lin  an'  Mr.  Hennin  an"  Dr.  Call 
come  ridin'  from  tudder  way,  to'ds  ole  Cun'l 
Chahmb'lin's.  When  dey  hed  tied  dey  hosses,  de 
udder  gent'mens  went  up  to  whar  Mr.  Gordon 
wuz,  an'  arfter  some  chattin'  Mr.  Hennin  step"  off 
'bout  fur  ez  'cross  dis  road,  or  mebbe  it  mout  be  a 


24  MARSE   CHAN. 

little  furder  ;  an'  den  I  seed  'em  th'oo  de  bushes 
loadin'  de  pistils,  an'  talk'  a  little  while  ;  an'  den 
Marse  Chan  an'  ole  Cun'l  Chahmb'lin  walked  up 
wid  de  pistils  in  dey  han's,  an'  Marse  Chan  he 
stood  wid  his  face  right  to'ds  de  sun.  I  seen  it 
shine  on  'im  jes'  ez  it  come  up  overde  low  groun's, 
an'  he  look'  like  he  did  sometimes  when  he  come 
out  of  chu'ch.  I  wuz  so  skeered  I  couldn'  say 
nuthin'.  Ole  Cun'l  Chahmb'lin  could  shoot  fust 
rate,  an'  Marse  Chan  he  never  missed. 

"  Den  I  heared  Mr.  Gordon  say,  '  Gent'mens,  is 
yo'  ready  ? '  and  bofe  of  'em  sez,  '  Ready,'  jes'  so. 

"An'  he  sez,  'Fire,  one,  two' — an'  ez  he  said 
'one,'  ole  Cun'l  Chahmb'lin  raised  he  pistil  an' 
shot  right  at  Marse  Chan.  De  ball  went  th'oo  his 
hat.  I  seen  he  hat  sort  o'  settle  on  he  head  ez  de 
bullit  hit  it,  an'  he  jes'  tilted  his  pistil  up  in  de  a'r 
an'  shot — bang  ;  an'  ez  de  pistil  went  bang,  he  sez 
to  Cun'l  Chahmb'lin,  '  I  mek  you  a  present  to  yo' 
fam'ly,  seh  ! ' 

"Well,  dey  had  some  talkin'  arfter  dat.  I 
didn'  git  rightly  what  it  wuz  ;  but  it  'peared  like 
Cun'l  Chahmb'lin  he  warn't  satisfied,  an'  wanted 
to  have  anudder  shot.  De  seconds  dey  wuz  talk- 
in',  an'  pres'n'y  dey  put  de  pistils  up,  an'  Marse 
Chan  an'  Mr.  Gordon  shook  han's  wid  Mr.  Hennin 
an'  Dr.  Call,  an'  come  an'  got  on  dey  hosses.  An' 
Cun'l  Chahmb'lin  he  got  on  his  horse  an'  rode 
away  wid  de  udder  gent'mens,  lookin*  like  he 
did  de  day  befo'  when  all  de  people  laughed  at 
'im. 


MARSE    CHAN.  25 

"  I  b'lieve  ole  Cun'l  Chahmb'lin  wan'  to  shoot 
Marse  Chan,  anyway  ! 

"  We  come  on  home  to  breakfast,  I  totin'  de  box 
wid  de  pistils  befo'  me  on  the  roan.  Would  you 
b'lieve  me,  seh,  Marse  Chan  he  nuvver  said  a  wud 
'bout  it  to  ole  marster  or  nobody.  Ole  missis 
didn'  fin'  out  'bout  it  for  mo'n  a  month,  an' 
den,  Lawd  !  how  she  did  cry  and  kiss  Marse  Chan  ; 
an'  ole  marster,  aldo*  he  never  say  much,  he  wuz 
jes'  ez  please'  ez  ole  missis.  He  call'  me  in  de 
room  an'  made  me  tole  'im  all  'bout  it,  an'  when  I 
got  th'oo  he  gi'  me  five  dollars  an'  a  pyar  of 
breeches. 

"  But  ole  Cun'l  Chahmb'lin  he  nuvver  did  fur- 
give  Marse  Chan,  and  Miss  Anne  she  got  mad  too. 
Wimmens  is  mons'us  onreasonable  nohow.  Dey's 
jes'  like  a  catfish  :  you  can  n'  tek'  hole  on  'em  like 
udder  folks,  an'  when  you  gits  'm  yo'  can  n' 
always  hole  'em. 

"  What  meks  me  think  so  ?  Heaps  o'  things — 
dis  :  Marse  Chan  he  done  gi'  Miss  Anne  her  pa  jes' 
ez  good  ez  I  gi'  Marse  Chan's  dawg  sweet  'taters, 
an'  she  git  mad  wid  'im  ez  if  he  hed  kill  'im  'stid 
o'  sen'in'  'im  back  to  her  dat  mawnin'  whole  an' 
soun'.  B'lieve  me  !  she  wouldn'  even  speak  to 
'im  arfter  dat  ! 

"  Don'  I  'member  dat  mawnin'! 

"  We  wuz  gwine  fox-huntin',  'bout  six  weeks  or 
sich  a  matter  arfter  de  duil,  an'  we  met  Miss  Anne 
ridin'  'long  wid  anudder  lady  an'  two  gent'mens 
whar  wuz  stayin'  at  her  house.  Dyar  wuz  always 


26  MARSE   CHAN. 

some  one  or  nudder  dyar  co'ting  her.  Well,  dat 
mavvnin'  we  meet  'em  right  in  de  road.  'Twuz  de 
fust  time  Marse  Chan  had  see  her  sence  de  duil, 
an'  he  raises  he  hat  ez  he  pahss,  an'  she  looks  right 
at  'im  wid  her  head  up  in  de  yair  like  she  nuvver 
see  'im  befo'  in  her  born  days  ;  an'  when  she 
comes  by  me,  she  sez,  '  Good-mawnin',  Sam  !  ' 
Gord  !  I  nuvver  see  nuthin'  like  de  look  dat 
come  on  Marse  Chan's  face  when  she  pahss  'im  like 
dat.  He  gi'  de  sorrel  a  pull  dat  fotch  'im  back 
settin'  down  in  de  san'  on  he  hanches.  He  ve'y 
lips  wuz  white.  I  tried  to  keep  up  wid  'im,  but 
'twarn'  no  use.  He  sont  me  back  home  pres'n'y, 
an'  he  rid  on.  I  sez  to  myself,  '  Cun'l  Chahm- 
b'lin,  don'  yo'  meet  Marse  Chan  dis  mawnin'. 
He  ain'  bin  lookin'  'roun'  de  ole  school-house,  whar 
he  an'  Miss  Anne  use'  to  go  to  school  to  ole  Mr. 
Hall  together,  fur  nuffin'.  He  won'  stan'  no  prod- 
jickin'  to-day.' 

"  He  nuvver  come  home  dat  night  tell  'way  late, 
an'  ef  he'd  been  fox-huntin'  it  mus'  ha'  been  de  ole 
red  whar  lives  down  in  de  greenscum  mashes  he'd 
been  chasin'.  De  way  de  sorrel  wuz  gormed  up  wid 
sweat  an'  mire  sut'n'y  did  hu't  me.  He  walked 
up  to  de  stable  wid  he  head  down  all  de  way,  an' 
I'se  seen  'im  go  eighty  miles  of  a  winter  day,  an' 
prance  into  de  stable  at  night  ez  fresh  ez  ef  he  hed 
jes'  cantered  over  to  ole  Cun'l  Chahmb'lin's  to 
supper.  I  nuvver  seen  a  hoss  beat  so  sence  I 
knowed  de  fetlock  from  de  fo'lock,  an'  bad  ez  he 
wuz  he  wan'  ez  bad  ez  Marse  Chan. 


MARSE    CHAN.  27 

"  Whew  !  he  didn'  git  over  dat  thing,  seh — he 
nuvver  did  git  over  it. 

"  De  war  come  on  jes'  den,  an'  Marse  Chan  vvuz 
elected  cap'n  ;  but  he  wouldn'  tek  it.  He  said 
Firginia  hadn'  seceded,  an'  he  wuz  gwine  stan'  by 
her.  Den  dey  'lected  Mr.  Gordon  cap'n. 

"  I  sut'n'y  did  wan'  Marse  Chan  to  tek  de  place, 
cuz  I  knowed  he  wuz  gwine  tek  me  wid  'im.  He 
wan'  gwine  widout  Sam.  An'  beside,  he  look  so 
po'  an'  thin,  I  thought  he  wuz  gwine  die. 

"  Of  co'se  ole  missis  she  heard  'bout  it,  an' 
she  met  Miss  Anne  in  de  road,  an'  cut  her  jes'  like 
Miss  Anne  cut  Marse  Chan. 

"  Ole  missis,  she  wuz  proud  ez  anybody  !  So  we 
wuz  mo'  strangers  dan  ef  we  hadn'  live'  in  a  hun- 
derd  miles  of  each  udder.  An'  Marse  Chan  he 
wuz  gittin'  thinner  an'  thinner,  an'  Firginia  she 
come  out,  an'  den  Marse  Chan  he  went  to  Rich- 
mond an'  listed,  an'  come  back  an'  sey  he  wuz  a 
private,  an'  he  didn'  know  whe'r  he  could  tek  me 
or  not.  He  writ  to  Mr.  Gordon,  hows' ever,  and 
'twuz  decided  that  when  he  went  I  wuz  to  go  'long 
an'  wait  on  him,  an'  de  cap'n  too.  I  didn'  min' 
dat,  yo'  know,  long  ez  I  could  go  wid  Marse  Chan, 
an'  I  like'  Mr.  Gordon,  anyways. 

"  Well,  one  night  Marse  Chan  come  back  from 
de  offis  wid  a  telegram  dat  say,  '  Come  at  once,' 
so  he  wuz  to  start  nex'  mawnin'.  He  uniform  wuz 
all  ready,  gray  wid  yaller  trimmin's,  an'  mine  wuz 
ready  too,  an'  he  had  ole  marster's  sword,  whar 
de  State  gi'  'im  in  de  Mexikin  war  ;  an'  he  trunks 


28  MARSE    CHAN. 

wuz  all  packed  wid  ev'ry thing  in  'em,  an'  my  chist 
wuz  packed  too,  an'  Jim  Rasher  he"  druv  'em  over 
to  de  depo'  in  de  waggin,  an'  we  wuz  to  start  nex' 
mawnin'  'bout  light.  Dis  wuz  'bout  de  las'  o' 
spring,  you  know.  Dat  night  ole  missis  made 
Marse  Chan  dress  up  in  he  uniform,  an'  he  sut'n'y 
did  look  splendid  wid  he  long  mustache  an'  he 
wavin'  hyar  and  he  tall  figger. 

"  Arfter  supper  he  come  down  an'  sez  :  '  Sam,  I 
wan'  you  to  tek  dis  note  an'  kyar  it  over  to  Cun'l 
Chahmb'lin's,  an'  gi'  it  to  Miss  Anne  wid  yo'  own 
han's,  an'  bring  me  wud  what  she  sez.  Don'  let 
any  one  know  'bout  it,  or  know  why  you've  gone.' 
'  Yes,  seh,'  sez  I. 

"  Yo' see,  I  knowed  Miss  Anne's  maid  over  at 
ole  Cun'l  Chahmb'lin's — dat  wuz  Judy  whar  is 
my  wife  now — an'  I  knowed  I  could  wuk  it.  So  I 
tuk  de  roan  an'  rid  over,  an'  tied  'itn  down  de  hill 
in  de  cedars,  an'  I  wen'  'roun'  to  de  back  yard. 
'Twuz  a  right  blowy  sort  o'  night  ;  de  moon  wuz  jes' 
risin',  but  de  clouds  wuz  so  big  it  didn'  shine  'cep' 
th'oo  a  crack  now  an'  den.  I  soon  foun'  my  gal, 
an'  arfter  tellin'  her  two  or  three  lies  'bout  herse'f, 
I  got  her  to  go  in  an'  ax  Miss  Anne  to  come  to  de 
do'.  When  she  come,  I  gi'  her  de  note,  an'  arfter 
a  little  while  she  bro't  me  anudder,  an'  I  tole  her 
good-by,  an'  she  gi'  me  a  dollar,  an'  I  come  home 
an'  gi'  de  letter  to  Marse  Chan.  He  read  it,  an' 
tole  me  to  have  de  hosses  ready  at  twenty  minits 
to  twelve  at  de  corner  of  de  garden.  An'  jes' 
befo'  dat  he  come  out  ez  ef  he  wuz  gwine  to  bed, 


MARSE    CHAN.  29 

but  instid  he  come,  an'  we  all  struck  out  to'ds 
Cun'l  Chahmb'lin's.  When  we  got  mos'  to  de 
gate,  de  hosses  got  sort  o'  skeered,  an'  I  see  dey 
wuz  some'n  or  somebody  standin'  jes'  inside  ;  an' 
Marse  Chan  he  jumpt  off  de  sorrel  an'  flung  me  de 
bridle  and  he  walked  up. 

"  She  spoke  fust  ('twuz  Miss  Anne  had  done 
come  out  dyar  to  meet  Marse  Chan),  an'  she  sez, 
jes'  ez  cold  ez  a  chill,  '  Well,  seh,  I  granted  your 
favor.  I  wished  to  relieve  myse'f  of  de  obligations 
you  placed  me  under  a  few  months  ago,  when  you 
made  me  a  present  of  my  father,  whom  you  fust  in- 
sulted an'  then  prevented  from  gittin1  satisfaction.' 

"  Marse  Chan  he  didn'  speak  fur  a  minit,  an' 
den  he  said  :  '  Who  is  with  you  ? '  (Dat  wuz  ev'y 
wud.) 

"  '  No  one,'  sez  she  ;  '  I  came  alone.' 

"  '  My  God  !  '  sez  he,  '  you  didn'  come  all 
through  those  woods  by  yourse'f  at  this  time 
o'  night  ?' 

"  '  Yes,  I'm  not  afraid,'  sez  she.  (An'  heah  dis 
nigger  !  I  don'  b'lieve  she  wuz.) 

"  De  moon  come  out,  an'  I  cotch  sight  o'  her 
stan'in'  dyar  in  her  white  dress,  wid  de  cloak  she 
had  wrapped  herse'  f  up  in  drapped  off  on  de  groun' , 
an'  she  didn'  look  like  she  wuz  'feared  o'  nuthin'. 
She  wuz  mons'us  purty  ez  she  stood  dyar  wid  de 
green  bushes  behine  her,  an'  she  hed  jes'  a  few 
flowers  in  her  breas' — right  hyah — and  some  leaves 
in  her  sorrel  hyar  ;  an'  de  moon  come  out  an'  shined 
down  on  her  hyar  an'  her  frock,  an'  'peared  like 


30  MARSE   CHAN. 

de  light  wuz  jes'  stan'in'  off  it  ez  she  stood  dyar 
lookin'  at  Marse  Chan  wid  her  head  tho'd  back,  jes' 
like  dat  mawnin'  when  she  pahss  Marse  Chan  in 
de  road  widout  speakin'  to  'im,  an'  sez  to  me, 
'  Good  mawnin',  Sam.' 

"  Marse  Chan,  he  den  tole  her  he  hed  come  to 
say  good-by  to  her,  ez  he  wuz  gwine  'way  to  de 
war  nex'  mawnin'.  I  wuz  watchin'  on  her,  an' 
I  tho't  when  Marse  Chan  tole  her  dat,  she  sort  o' 
started  an'  looked  up  at  'im  like  she  wuz  mighty 
sorry,  an'  'peared  like  she  didn'  stan'  quite  so 
straight  arfter  dat.  Den  Marse  Chan  he  went  on 
talkin'  right  fars'  to  her  ;  an'  he  tole  her  how  he 
had  loved  her  ever  sence  she  wuz  a  little  bit  o' 
baby  mos',  an'  how  he  nuvver  'membered  de  time 
when  he  hedn'  'spected  to  marry  her.  He  tole 
her  it  wuz  his  love  for  her  dat  hed  made  'im  stan' 
fust  at  school  an'  collige,  an'  hed  kep'  'im  good 
an'  pure  ;  an'  now  he  wuz  gwine  'way,  wouldn' 
she  let  it  be  like  'twuz  in  ole  times,  an'  ef  he 
come  back  from  de  war  wouldn'  she  try  to  t'ink 
on  him  ez  she  use'  'to  do  when  she  wuz  a  little 
guirl  ? 

"  Marse  Chan  he  had  done  been  talkin'  so 
serious,  he  hed  done  tuk  Miss  Anne's  han',  an' 
wuz  lookin'  down  in  her  face  like  he  wuz  list'nin' 
wid  his  eyes. 

"  Arfter  a  minit  Miss  Anne  she  said  somethin', 
an'  Marse  Chan  he  cotch  her  udder  han'  an'  sez  : 
'  But  if  you  love  me,  Anne  ? ' 

"  When   he  sed   dat,  she  tu'ned   her  head   'way 


MARSE    CHAN.  31 

from  'im,  an'    wait'    a   minit,    an'    den   she  sed — 
right  clear  : 

'  But  I  don'  love  yo'.'  (Jes'  dem  th'ee  wuds  !) 
De  wuds  fall  right  slow — like  dirt  falls  out  a 
spade  on  a  coffin  when  yo's  buryin'  anybody  an' 
seys,  '  Uth  to  uth.'  Marse  Chan  he  jes'  let  her 
hand  drap,  an'  he  stiddy  hisse'f  'g'inst  de  gate- 
pos',  an'  he  didn'  speak  torekly.  When  he  did 
speak,  all  he  sez  wuz  : 

"  '  I  mus'  see  you  home  safe.' 

"  I  'clar,  marster,  I  didn'  know  'twuz  Marse 
Chan's  voice  tell  I  look  at  'im  right  good.  Well, 
she  wouldn'  let  'im  go  wid  her.  She  jes'  wrap' 
her  cloak  'roun'  her  shoulders,  an'  wen'  'long  back 
by  herse'f,  widout  doin'  more'n  jes'  look  up  once 
at  Marse  Chan  leanin'  dyah  'g'inst  de  gate-pos'  in 
he  sodger  clo'es,  wid  he  eyes  on  de  groun'.  She 
said  '  Good-by  '  sort  o'  sorf,  an'  Marse  Chan, 
widout  lookin'  up,  shake  han's  wid  her,  an'  she 
wuz  done  gone  down  de  road.  Soon  ez  she  got 
'mos'  'roun'  de  curve,  Marse  Chan  he  followed  her, 
keepin'  under  de  trees  so  ez  not  to  be  seen,  an'  I 
led  de  hosses  on  down  de  road  behine  'im.  He 
kep'  'long  behine  her  tell  she  wuz  safe  in  de  house, 
an'  den  he  come  an'  got  on  he  hoss,  an'  we  all 
come  home. 

"  Nex' mawnin'  we  all  come  off  to  j'inede  army. 
An'  dey  wuz  a-drillin'  an'  a-drillin'  all  'bout  for  a 
while  an'  dey  went  'long  wid  all  de  res'  o'  de 
army,  an'  I  went  wid  Marse  Chan  an'  clean  he 
boots,  an'  look  arfter  de  tent,  an'  tek  keer  o'  him 


32  MARSE   CHAN. 

an'  de  bosses.  An'  Marse  Chan,  he  wan'  a  bit 
like  he  use'  to  be.  He  \vuz  so  solum  an"  moanful 
all  de  time,  at  leas'  'cep'  when  dyah  vvuz  gwine  to 
be  a  fight.  Den  he'd  peartin'  up,  an'  he  ahvuz 
rode  at  de  head  o*  de  company  'cause  he  wuz  tall  ; 
an'  hit  wan'  on'y  in  battles  whar  all  his  company 
wuz  dat  he  went,  but  he  use'  to  volunteer  whenever 
de  cun'l  wanted  anybody  to  fine  out  anythin',  an' 
'twuz  so  dangersome  he  didn'  like  to  mek  one 
man  go  no  sooner'n  anudder,  yo'  know,  an'  ax'd 
who'd  volunteer.  He  "peared  to  like  to  go  prowlin' 
aroun'  'mong  dem  Yankees,  an'  he  use'  to  tek  me 
wid  'im  whenever  he  could.  Yes,  seh,  he  sut'n'y 
wuz  a  good  sodger  !  He  didn'  mine  bullets  no 
more'n  he  did  so  many  draps  o*  rain.  But  I  use' 
to  be  pow'ful  skeered  sometimes.  It  jes'  use'  to 
'pear  like  fun  to  'im.  In  camp  he  use'  to  be  so 
sorrerful  he'd  hardly  open  he  mouf.  You'd  'a' 
tho't  he  wuz  seekin',  he  used  to  look  so  moanful  ; 
but  jes'  le'  'im  git  into  danger,  an'  he  use'  to  be 
like  ole  times — jolly  an'  laughin'  like  when  he  wuz 
a  boy. 

"  When  Cap'n  Gordon  got  he  leg  shot  off,  dey 
mek  Marse  Chan  cap'n  on  de  spot,  'cause  one  o' 
de  lieutenants  got  kilt  de  same  day,  an'  tor'er  one 
(named  Mr.  Ronny)  wan'  no  'count,  an'  all  de 
company  sed  Marse  Chan  wuz  de  man. 

"  An'  Marse  Chan  he  wuz  jes'  de  same.  He 
didn'  never  mention  Miss  Anne's  name,  but  I 
knowed  he  wuz  thinkin'  on  her  constant.  One 
night  he  wuz  settin'  by  de  fire  in  camp,  an'  Mr. 


MARSE    CHAN.  33 

Ronny— he  wuz  de  secon'  lieutenant — got  to  talk- 
in'  'bout  ladies,  an'  he  say  all  sorts  o'  things  'bout 
'em,  an'  I  see  Marse  Chan  kinder  lookin'  mad  ;  an' 
de  lieutenant  mention  Miss  Anne's  name.  He  hed 
been  courtin'  Miss  Anne  'bout  de  time  Marse  Chan 
fit  de  duil  wid  her  pa,  an'  Miss  Anne  hed  kicked 
'im,  dough  he  wuz  mighty  rich,  'cause  he  warn" 
nuthin'  but  a  half-strainer,  an*  'cause  she  like 
Marse  Chan,  I  believe,  dough  she  didn'  speak  to 
'im  ;  an'  Mr.  Ronny  he  got  drunk,  an'  'cause  Cun'l 
Chahmb'lin  tole  'im  not  to  come  dyah  no  more,  he 
got  mighty  mad.  An*  dat  evenin'  I'se  tellin'  yo' 
'bout,  he  wuz  talkin',  an'  he  mention'  Miss  Anne's 
name.  I  see  Marse  Chan  tu'n  he  eye  'roun'  on 
'im  an'  keep  it  on  he  face,  an'  pres'n'y  Mr.  Ronny 
said  he  wuz  gwine  hev  some  fun  dyah  yit.  He 
didn'  mention  her  name  dat  time  ;  but  he  said 
dey  wuz  all  on  'em  aparecel  of  stuck-up  'risticrats, 
an'  her  pa  wan'  no  gent' man  anyway,  and  she — 
I  don'  know  what  he  wuz  gwine  say  (he  nuvver 
said  it),  fur  ez  he  got  dat  far  Marse  Chan  riz  up 
an'  hit  'im  a  crack,  an'  he  fall  like  he  hed  been  hit 
wid  a  fence-rail.  He  challenged  Marse  Chan  to 
fight  a  duil,  an'  Marse  Chan  he  excepted  de  chal- 
lenge, an'  dey  wuz  gwine  fight  ;  but  some  on  'em 
tole  'im  Marse  Chan  wan'  gwine  mek  a  present  o' 
him  to  his  fam'ly,  an'  he  got  somebody  to  bre'k  up 
de  duil  ;  'twan'  nuthin'  dough,  but  he  wuz  'fred 
to  fight  Marse  Chan.  An'  purty  soon  he  lef  de 
comp'ny. 
"  Well,  I  got  one  o'  de  gent'mens  to  write  Judy 


34  MARSE    CHAN. 

a  letter  for  me,  an'  I  tole  her  all  'bout  de  fight,  an' 
how  Marse  Chan  knock  Mr.  Ronny  over  fur  speak- 
in'  discontemptuous  o'  Cun'l  Chahmb'lin,  an'  I 
tole  her  how  Marse  Chan  wuz  a-dyin'  fur  love  o' 
Miss  Anne.  An'  Judy  she  gits  Miss  Anne  to  read 
de  letter  fur  her.  Den  Miss  Anne  she  tells  her  pa, 
an' — you  mind,  Judy  tells  me  all  dis  arfterwards, 
an'  she  say  when  Cun'l  Chahmb'lin  hear  'bout  it, 
he  wuz  settin'  on  de  poach,  an'  he  set  still  a  good 
while,  an'  den  he  sey  to  hisse'f  : 

"  '  Well,  he  earn'  he'p  bein'  a  Whig.' 

"  An'  den  he  gits  up  an'  walks  up  to  Miss  Anne 
an'  looks  at  her  right  hard  ;  an'  Miss  Anne  she 
hed  done  tu'n  away  her  head  an'  wuz  makin'  out 
she  wuz  fixin*  a  rose-bush  'g'inst  de  poach  ;  an* 
when  her  pa  kep'  lookin'  at  her,  her  face  got  jes' 
de  color  o'  de  roses  on  de  bush,  an'  pres'n'y  her 
pa  sez  : 

"  '  Anne  ! ' 

"  An'  she  tu'ned  'roun',  an'  he  sez  : 

"  '  Do  yo'  want  'im  ?' 

"  An'  she  sez,  '  Yes,'  an'  put  her  head  on  he 
shoulder  an'  begin  to  cry  ;  an'  he  sez  : 

"  '  Well,  I  won'  stan'  between  yo'  no  longer. 
Write  to  'im  an'  say  so.' 

"  We  didn'  know  nuthin'  'bout  dis  den.  We 
wuz  a-fightin'  an*  a-fightin'  all  dat  time  ;  an'  come 
one  day  a  letter  to  Marse  Chan,  an'  I  see  'im  start 
to  read  it  in  his  tent,  an'  he  face  hit  look  so  cu'ious, 
an'  he  han's  trembled  so  I  couldn'  mek  out  what 
wuz  de  matter  wid  'im.  An'  he  fold'  de  letter  up 


«  MARSE    CHAN.  35 

an'  wen'  out  an'  wen'  'way  down  'hine  de  camp, 
an'  stayed  dyah  'bout  nigh  an  hour.  Well,  seh,  I 
wuz  on  de  lookout  for  'im  when  he  come  back,  an', 
fo'  Gord,  ef  he  face  didn'  shine  like  a  angel's.  I 
say  to  myse'f,  '  Um'm  !  ef  de  glory  o'  Gord  ain' 
done  shine  on  'im  !  '  An'  what  yo'  'spose  'twuz  ? 

"  He  tuk  me  wid  'im  dat  evenin',  an'  he  tell  me 
he  hed  done  git  a  letter  from  Miss  Anne,  an'  Marse 
Chan  he  eyes  look  like  gre't  big  stars,  an'  he  face 
wuz  jes'  like  'twuz  dat  mawnin'  when  de  sun  riz  up 
over  de  low  groun's,  an'  I  see  'im  stan'in'  dyah 
wid  de  pistil  in  he  han',  lookin*  at  it,  an'  not 
knowin'  but  what  it  mout  be  de  lars'  time,  an'  he 
done  mek  up  he  mine  not  to  shoot  ole  Cun'l 
Chahmb'lin  fur  Miss  Anne's  sake,  what  writ  'im 
de  letter. 

"  He  fold'  de  letter  wha'  was  in  his  han'  up,  an' 
put  it  in  he  inside  pocket — right  dyar  on  de  lef 
side  ;  an'  den  he  tole  me  he  tho't  mebbe  we  wuz 
gwine  hev  some  warm  wuk  in  de  nex'  two  or 
th'ee  days,  an  arfter  dat  ef  Gord  speared  'im  he'd 
git  a  leave  o'  absence  fur  a  few  days,  an'  we'd  go 
home. 

"  Well,  dat  night  de  orders  come,  an'  we  all  hed 
to  git  over  to'ds  Romney  ;  an'  we  rid  all  night  till 
'bout  light  ;  an'  we  halted  right  on  a  little  creek, 
an'  we  stayed  dyah  till  mos'  breakfas'  time,  an'  I  see 
Marse  Chan  set  down  on  de  groun'  'hine  a  bush 
an'  read  dat  letter  over  an'  over.  I  watch  'im,  an' 
de  battle  wuz  a-goin'  on,  but  we  hed  orders  to  stay 
'hine  de  hill,  an'  ev'y  now  an'  den  de  bullets 


36  "    MARSE   CHAW.  * 

would  cut  de  limbs  o'  de  trees  right  over  us,  an' 
one  o'  dem  big  shells  what  goes  '  Awhar — awhar — 
awhar !  '  would  fall  right  'mong  us;  but  Marse 
Chan  he  didn'  mine  it  no  mo'n  nuthin'  !  Den  it 
'peared  to  git  closer  an'  thicker,  an'  Marse  Chan 
he  calls  me,  an'  I  crep'  up,  an'  he  sez  : 

"  '  Sam,  we'se  goin'  to  win  in  dis  battle,  an' 
den  we'll  go  home  an'  git  married  ;  an"  I'se  goin' 
home  wid  a  star  on  my  collar.'  An"  den  he  sez, 
'  Ef  I'm  wounded,  kyar  me  home,  yo'  hear  ? '  An* 
I  sez,  '  Yes,  Marse  Chan. ' 

"  Well,  jes'  den  dey  blowed  boots  an'  saddles 
an'  we  mounted  ;  an'  de  orders  come  to  ride  'roun' 
de  slope,  an'  Marse  Chan's  company  wuz  desecon'; 
an'  when  we  got  'roun'  dyah,  we  wuz  right  in  it. 
Hit  wuz  de  wust  place  ever  dis  nigger  got  in.  An* 
dey  said,  '  Charge 'em  !  '  an1  my  king  !  ef  ever  you 
see  bullets  fly,  dey  did  dat  day.  Hit  wuz  jes'  like 
hail  ;  an'  we  wen'  down  de  slope  (I  long  wid  de 
res')  an'  up  de  hill  right  to'ds  de  cannons,  an'  de 
fire  wuz  so  strong  dyar  (dey  hed  a  whole  rigiment 
o'  infintrys  layin'  down  dyar  onder  de  cannons)  our 
lines  sort  o'  broke  an'  stop  ;  de  cun'l  was  kilt,  an' 
I  b'lieve  dey  wuz  jes'  'bout  to  bre'k  all  to  pieces, 
when  Marse  Chan  rid  up  an'  cotch  hoi'  de  fleg  an* 
hollers,  '  Foller  me  !'  an'  rid  strainin'  up  de  hill 
'mong  de  cannons.  I  seen  'im  when  he  went,  de 
sorrel  four  good  lengths  ahead  o'  ev'y  udder  hoss, 
jes'  like  he  use'  to  be  in  a  fox-hunt,  an'  de  whole 
rigiment  right  arfter  'im.  Yo'  ain'  nuvver  hear 
thunder  !  Fust  thing  I  knowed,  de  roan  roll'  head 


MARSE    CHAN.  37 

over  heels  an'  flung  me  up  'g'inst  de  bank,  like  yo' 
chuck  a  nubbin  over  'g'inst  de  foot  o'  de  corn  pile. 
An'  dat's  what  kep'  me  from  bein'  kilt,  I  'specks. 
Judy  she  say  she  think  'twuz  Providence,  but  I 
think  'twuz  de  bank.  Of  co'se,  Providence  put  de 
bank  dyar,  but  how  come  Providence  nuvver  saved 
Marse  Chan  !  When  I  look'  'roun',  de  roan  wuz 
layin'  dyah  by  me,  stone  dead,  vvid  a  cannon-ball 
gone  'mos'  th'oo  him,  an*  our  men  hed  done  swep' 
dem  on  t'udder  side  from  de  top  o'  de  hill.  'Twan' 
mo'n  a  minit,  de  sorrel  come  gallupin'  back  vvid 
his  mane  flyin',  an'  de  rein  hangin'  down  on  one 
side  to  his  knee.  '  Dyar  ! '  says  I,  '  fo'  Gord  !  I 
'specks  dey  done  kill  Marse  Chan,  an'  I  promised 
to  tek  care  on  him.' 

"  I  jumped  up  an'  run  over  de  bank,  an'  dyar 
wid  a  whole  lot  o'  dead  men,  an'  some  not  dead 
yit,  onder  one  o'  de  guns  wid  de  fleg  still  in  he 
han',  an'  a  bullet  right  th'oo  he  body,  lay  Marse 
Chan.  I  tu'n'  'im  over  an'  call  'im  '  Marse  Chan  !' 
but  'twan'  no  use,  he  wuz  done  gone  home,  sho' 
'nuff.  I  pick'  'im  up  in  my  arms  wid  de  fleg  still 
in  he  han's,  an'  toted  'im  back  jes'  like  I  did  dat 
day  when  he  wuz  a  baby,  an'  ole  marster  gin  'im 
to  me  in  my  arms,  an'  sez  he  could  trus'  me,  an' 
tell  me  to  tek  keer  on  'im  long  ez  he  lived.  I 
kyar'd  'im  'way  off  de  battlefiel'  out  de  way  o'  de 
balls,  an'  I  laid  'im  down  onder  a  big  tree  till  I 
could  git  somebody  to  ketch  de  sorrel  for  me.  He 
wuz  cotched  arfter  awhile,  an'  f*hed  some  money, 
so  I  got  some  pine  plank  an'  made  a  coffin  dat  even- 


38  MARSE    CHAX. 

in',  an'  wrapt  Marse  Chan's  body  up  in  de  fleg,  an' 
put  'im  in  de  coffin  ;  but  I  didn'  nail  de  top  on 
strong,  'cause  I  knowed  ole  missis  wan'  see  'im  ; 
an'  I  got  a'  ambulance  an'  set  out  for  home  dat 
night.  We  reached  dyar  de  nex'  evenin',  arfter 
travellin'  all  dat  night  an'  all  nex'  day. 

"  Hit  'peared  like  somethin'  hed  tole  ole  missis 
we  wuzcomin'  so  ;  for  when  we  got  home  she  vvuz 
waitin'  for  us — done  drest  up  in  her  best  Sunday- 
clo'es,  an'  stan'in'  at  de  heado'  de  big  steps,  an' 
ole  marster  settin'  in  his  big  cheer — ez  we  druv 
up  de  hill  to'ds  de  house,  I  drivin'  de  ambulance 
an'  de  sorrel  leadin'  'long  behine  wid  de  stirrups 
crost  over  de  saddle. 

"  She  come  down  to  de  gate  to  meet  us.  We 
took  de  coffin  out  de  ambulance  an'  kyar'd  it  right 
into  de  big  parlor  wid  de  pictures  in  it,  whar  dey 
use'  to  dance  in  ole  times  when  Marse  Chan  wuz  a 
school-boy,  an'  Miss  Anne  Chahmb'lin  use'  to 
come  over,  an'  go  wid  ole  missis  into  her  chamber 
an*  tek  her  things  off.  In  dyar  we  laid  de  coffin 
on  two  o'  de  cheers,  an'  ole  missis  nuvver  said  a 
wud  ;  she  jes'  looked  so  ole  an'  white. 

"  When  I  had  tell  'em  all  'bout  it,  I  tu'ned  right 
'roun'  an'  rid  over  to  Cun'l  Chahmb'lin's,  'cause  I 
knowed  dat  wuz  what  Marse  Chan  he'd  'a'  wanted 
me  to  do.  I  didn'  tell  nobody  whar  I  wuz  gwine, 
'cause  yo'  know  none  on  'em  hadn*  nuvver  speak 
to  Miss  Anne,  not  sence  de  duil,  an'  dey  didn' 
know  'bout  de  lefter. 

"  When  I  rid  up  in  de  yard,  dyar  wuz  Miss  Anne 


MARSE    CHAN.  39 

a-stan'in'  on  de  poach  watchin'  me  ez  I  rid  up.  I 
tied  my  boss  to  de  fence,  an'  walked  up  de  parf. 
She  knowed  by  de  way  I  walked  dyar  wuz  some- 
thin'  de  motter,  an.'  she  wuz  mighty  pale.  I  drapt 
my  cap  down  on  de  een'  o'  de  steps  an'  went  up. 
She  nuvver  opened  her  mouf  ;  jes'  stan'  right  still 
an'  keep  her  eyes  on  my  face.  Fust,  I  couldn' 
speak  ;  den  I  cotch  my  voice,  an'  I  say,  '  Marse 
Chan,  he  done  got  he  furlough.' 

"  Her  face  was  mighty  ashy,  an'  she  sort  o' 
shook,  but  she  didn'  fall.  She  tu'ned  roun'  an' 
said,  '  Git  me  de  ker'ige  !'  Dat  wuz  all. 

'  When  de  ker'ige  come  'roun',  she  hed  put  on 
her  bonnet,  an'  wuz  ready.  Ez  she  got  in,  she  sey 
to  me,  '  Hev  yo'  brought  him  home  ? '  an'  we 
drove  'long,  I  ridin'  behine. 

"  When  we  got  home,  she  got  out,  an'  walked 
up  de  big  walk — up  to  de  poach  by  herse'f.  Ole 
missis  hed  done  fin'  de  letter  in  Marse  Chan's 
pocket,  wid  de  love  in  it,  while  I  wuz  'way,  an'  she 
wuz  a-waitin'  on  de  poach.  Dey  sey  dat  wuz  de 
fust  time  ole  missis  cry  when  she  find  de  letter,  an' 
dat  she  sut'n'y  did  cry  over  it,  pintedly. 

"  Well,  seh.  Miss  Anne  she  walks  right  up  de 
steps,  mos'  up  to  ole  missis  stan' in'  dyar  on  de 
poach,  an'  jes'  falls  right  down  mos'  to  her,  on  her 
knees  fust,  an'  den  flat  on  her  face  right  on  de  flo', 
ketchin'  at  ole  missis'  dress  wid  her  two  han's — so. 

"  Ole  missis  stood  for  'bout  a  minit  lookin' 
down  at  her,  an'  den  she  drapt  down  on  de  flo'  by 
her,  an'  took  her  in  bofe  her  arms. 


40  At  ARSE    CHAN. 

• 

"  I  couldn'  see,  I  wuz  cryin'  so  myse'f,  an'  ev'y- 
body  wuz  cryin'.  But  dey  went  in  arfter  a  while 
in  de  parlor,  an'  shet  de  do';  an'  I  hyard  'em  say, 
Miss  Anne  she  tuk  de  coffin  in  her  arms  an'  kissed 
it,  an'  kissed  Marse  Chan,  an'  call  'im  by  his 
name,  an'  her  darlin',  an'  ole  missis  lef  her  cryin' 
in  dyar  tell  some  on  'em  went  in,  an'  found  her 
done  faint  on  de  flo'. 

"  Judy  (she's  my  wife)  she  tell  me  she  heah  Miss 
Anne  when  she  axed  ole  missis  mout  she  wear 
mo'nin'  fur  'im.  I  don'  know  how  dat  is  ;  but 
when  we  buried  'im  nex1  day,  she  wuz  de  one 
whar  walked  arfter  de  coffin,  holdin'  ole  marster, 
an'  ole  missis  she  walked  next  to  'em." 

"  Well,  we  buried  Marse  Chan  dyar  in  de  ole 
grabeyard,  wid  de  fleg  wrapped  roun'  'im,  an'  he 
face  lookin'  like  it  did  dat  mawnin'  down  in  de 
low  groun's,  wid  de  new  sun  shinin'  on  it  so 
peaceful. 

"  Miss  Anne  she  nuvver  went  home  arfter  dat  ; 
she  stay  wid  ole  marster  an'  ole  missis  ez  long  ez 
dey  lived.  Dat  warn'  so  mighty  long,  'cause  ole 
marster  he  died  dat  fall,  when  dey  wuz  fallerin' 
fur  wheat — I  had  jes'  married  Judy  den — an'  ole 
missis  she  warn'  long  behine  him.  We  buried  her 
by  him  next  summer.  Miss  Anne  she  went  in  de 
hospitals  toreckly  arfter  ole  missis  died  ;  an'  jes' 
fo'  Richmond  fell  she  come  home  sick  wid  de 
fever.  Yo'  nuvver  would  'a'  knowed  her  fur  de 
same  ole  Miss  Anne.  She  wuz  light  ez  a  piece  o' 
peth,  an'  so  white,  'cep'  her  eyes  an'  her  sorrel 


MARSE   CHAN.  41 

hyar,  an'  she  kep'  on  gittin'  whiter  an'  weaker. 
Judy  she  sut'n'y  did  nuss  her  faithful.  But  she 
nuvver  got  no  betterment  !  De  fever  an'  Marse 
Chan's  bein'  kilt  hed  done  strain  her,  an'  she  died 
jes'  'fo'  de  folks  wuz  sot  free. 

"  So  we  buried  Miss  Anne  right  by  Marse  Chan, 
in  a  place  whar  ole  missis  hed  tole  us  to  leave,  an' 
dey's  bofe  on  'em  sleep  side  by  side  over  in  de  ole 
grabeyard  at  home. 

"An'  will  yo'  please  tell  me,  marster  ?  Dey 
tells  me  dat  de  Bible  sey  dyar  won'  be  marryin' 
nor  givin'  in  marriage  in  heaven,  but  I  don'  b'lieve 
it  signifies  dat — does  yo'  ?" 

I  gave  him  the  comfort  of  my  earnest  belief  in 
some  other  interpretation,  together  with  several 
spare  "  eighteen-pences,"  as  he  called  them,  for 
which  he  seemed  humbly  grateful.  And  as  I  rode 
away  I  heard  him  calling  across  the  fence  to  his 
wife,  who  was  standing  in  the  door  of  a  small 
whitewashed  cabin,  near  which  we  had  been  stand- 
ing for  some  time  : 

"  Judy,  have  Marse  Chan's  dawg  got  home  ?" 


MR.  BIXBY'S  CHRISTMAS  VISITOR. 

BY  CHARLES  S.  GAGE. 


AT  the  head  of  the  first  flight  of  stairs,  and  on 
opposite  sides  of  the  landing,  were  the  re- 
spective rooms  of  Mr.  Bixby  and  Mr,  Bangs.  The 
house  in  which  they  lived  stood  in  a  quiet  and  re- 
tired street  on  the  lower  and  western  side  of  New 
York,  a  locality  which  was  once  inhabited  by 
fashionable  families,  afterward  by  old-fashioned 
families,  and  at  the  time  of  our  story  by  the 
keepers  of  boarding-houses  for  single  men. 

Mr.  Henry  Bixby  and  Mr.  Alfred  Bangs  were 
single  men — Mr.  Bangs,  the  wine-merchant,  be- 
cause he  liked  wine  and  song  so  well  that  he 
never  had  leisure  to  think  of  women,  because  he 
was  fat,  because  he  was  red  in  the  face,  and,  if 
more  reasons  are  necessary,  because  his  fingers 
were  chubby  and  short.  For  twenty  years,  day 
by  day,  Mr.  Bangs  had  been  absorbed  in  business. 

«*»  Appltton 's  'Journal,  December  30,  1871. 


MR.  BIXBY'S  CHRISTMAS  VISITOR.  43 

For  twenty  years,  night  after  night,  it  had  been 
his  custom  to  entertain  his  friends  at  his  apartment 
in  not  a  very  quiet  way.  He  was  so  happy,  and 
bulbous,  and  jolly,  that  he  had  never  thought  of 
marriage.  Yet  he  might  easily  have  been  mis- 
taken by  the  casual  observer  for  a  family  man. 
He  wore  a  white  vest  when  it  wasn't  too  cold  ; 
his  linen  was  painfully  plain.  There  was  not  a 
sign  of  jewelry  about  him.  He  wore  low  shoes, 
which  he  tied  with  a  ribbon.  This  was  Mr.  Bangs. 

Not  quite  so  old  in  years  as  the  opposite  lodger 
was  Mr.  Bixby,  known  to  his  few  friends  as  a  genial 
philosopher  and  poet,  to  the  public  as  the  literary 
critic  of  one  of  the  great  daily  papers.  He  might 
have  been  thirty- five  years  of  age,  but,  as  he  had 
lived  more  for  others  than  for  himself,  as  he  had 
made  a  study  and  not  a  pleasure  of  life,  his  gray 
eyes  and  the  other  features  of  his  face  suggested 
to  whoever  met  him  a  longer  past.  There  was 
something  about  him  that  caused  men  to  wonder, 
not  what  he  was,  but  what  he  had  been. 

For  ten  years  Mr.  Bangs  and  Mr.  Bixby  had  been 
inmates  of  the  house  together.  Mr.  Bangs  had 
been  there  longer.  The  present  landlady  had  re- 
ceived as  a  legacy  from  her  predecessor,  who  did 
not  care  to  take  him  away,  Mr.  Bangs.  As  she 
-said,  she  made  a  present  of  Bangs. 

Long  as  they  had  known  each  other,  the  two 
lodgers  were  only  acquaintances.  Sometimes,  on 
a  Sunday  afternoon,  they  would  walk  out  in  com- 
pany, stroll  down  to  the  Battery,  and  there  smoke 


44  MR.  BIXBY' S  CHRISTMAS  VISITOR. 

their  cigars  and  watch  the  ships,  but  beyond  this 
point  of  sociability,  which  neither  enjoyed,  there 
was  nothing  more.  Never  had  Bixby  read  Bangs 
any  poem  he  had  made,  nor  did  ever  Bangs  invite 
Bixby  to  meet  his  convivial  friends  of  an  evening 
to  play  whist  or  to  partake  of  his  mulled  ale.  In 
fact,  Mr.  Bixby  had  been  often  and  with  great  en- 
thusiasm voted  an  unsocial  fellow  by  the  cronies 
of  Mr.  Bangs,  but  he  rose  somewhat  in  their  esti- 
mation when  they  were  informed  that  he  had  con- 
sented to  exchange  rooms  with  their  host. 

"  He  isn't  such  a  grouty  fellow,  afte.r  all,"  said 
Bangs.  "  I  told  him  that  we  were  too  near  the 
street,  and  that  some  one  had  been  complaining. to 
the  landlady  of  our  singing.  He  didn't  even  stop 
to  think,  but  agreed  to  do  it  at  once.  He  thought 
the  light  would  be  better  here.  Now,  fellows,  I 
call  that  doing  the  fair  thing." 

And  the  speech  of  Mr.  Bangs  was  applauded. 

It  was  the  morning  of  the  day  before  Christmas 
that  the  change  was  effected.  In  the  closet  where 
had  been  the  bottles,  the  decanters,  glasses,  and 
pickle-jars  of  the  late  occupant,  Mr.  Bixby  had 
arranged  shelves,  and  filled  them  with  his  books. 
Over  the  mantel,  from  which  Mr.  Bangs  had  taken 
away  a  colored  print  of  a  bull-dog  in  an  overcoat, 
Mr.  Bixby  hung  a  fine  engraving  of  the  Madonna, . 
and  on  the  mantel  itself  he  had  placed  his  clock. 
It  was  a  small  French  clock  under  a  crystal,  so 
that  its  rapidly-swinging  pendulum  could  be  easily 
seen.  All  bachelors,  however  negligent  of  their 


MR.  BIXBY' S  CHRISTMAS  VISITOR.  45 

surroundings,  have  some  one  hobby  among  articles 
of  furniture.  It  may  be  an  easy-chair,  or  a  book- 
case, or  a  chandelier — there  is  one  thing  that  must 
be  the  best  of  its  kind.  There  could  be  no  doubt, 
from  the  care  with  which  Mr.  Bixby  placed  his 
clock  in  its  position,  and  from  time  to  time  com- 
pared it  with  his  watch,  that  this  was  his  hobby. 
It  had  the  three  requisites  which  he  demanded  in  a 
clock.  It  kept  correct  time  without  failing,  its 
pendulum  swung  rapidly,  and  was  plainly  visible. 
Time  past  was  the  happiness  of  Mr.  Bixby,  and 
this  clock  told  him  continually  that  all  was  being 
done  that  could  be  done  to  induce  the  hours  of 
every  day  to  go  over  to  the  majority.  He  de- 
pended upon  this  clock.  He  was  surer  of  its 
mechanism  than  of  that  of  his  own  heart. 

What  with  hanging  his  pictures  and  arranging 
his  furniture,  and  with  many  other  little  things 
which  had  to  be  done,  Mr.  Bixby  was  busily  em- 
ployed all  day.  But  the  task  was  not  an  unpleasant 
one.  His  heart  was  in  the  work,  for  there  was 
hardly  an  object  in  the  room  not  nearly  associated 
with  some  event  in  his  past  life.  After  carefully 
brushing  the  dust  from  an  old  writing-desk,  which 
had  evidently  once  belonged  to  a  lady,  he  placed 
it  upon  the  rug  in  front  of  the  fire.  Only  on 
Christmas-eves  was  this  desk  opened. 

"It  is  curious,"  thought  Mr.  Bixby,  "that  I 
should  have  moved  this  day,  of  all  days  in  the 
year  !" 

Often  in  his  work  he  thought  of  stopping  to  take 


46  MR.  BIXBY' S  CHKISTMAS  VISITOR. 

from  the  desk  an  old  packet  of  letters,  and  reading 
them  once  more.  But  it  was  not  yet  time,  and, 
moreover,  he  was  continually  interrupted.  First, 
there  came  some  one  to  his  door  with  "  Two  dozen 
Congress- water  for  Mr.  Bangs  ;"  then  one  with 
"  Mr.  Bangs's  boots,"  and  another  to  tell  Mr. 
Bangs  that  "  the  pup  was  big  enough  to  take 
away."  Finally,  came  Bangs  himself,  to  complain 
of  like  interruptions,  and  to  bid  him  good-by. 

"  Here  is  some  manuscript  a  boy  left  for  you. 
You  will  have  to  attend  both  doors  now.  I  am  off 
to  spend  Christmas.  We  are  going  to  have  a  Tom- 
and- Jerry  party  in  Jersey.  You  know — 

"'The  Tom-and-Jerry  days   have  come,  the  happiest  in  the 
year  ! ' 

Good  rendering,  eh  ?     That  isn't  all  : 

"  '  I  only  wish  to  live  till  the  juleps  come  again  ! '  ' 

And  Mr.  Bangs  laughed  uproariously,  even  after 
he  had  said,  "  Good-by,"  and  shut  the  door  behind 
him. 

"  What  a  personification  of  Bacchus  !"  thought 

Mr.  Bixby — 

"  '  Ever  laughing,  ever  young." 

He  will  be  young  as  long  as  he  lives,  but  I  am 
afraid  chat  won't  be  long.  If  ever  there  was  a 
man  in  immediate  danger  of  apoplexy,  Bangs  is 
that  man." 

It  was  after  dinner  when  Mr.  Bixby  lighted  his 
drop-light  and  sat  down  before  the  fire.  He 


MR.  BIXBY'  S  CHRISTMAS  VISITOR.  47 

pushed  an  ottoman  in  front  of  him,  on  which  to 
rest  his  feet,  which  he  had  comfortably  encased  in 
his  slippers.  But  the  shadows  in  his  new  room 
did  not  please  him.  He  could  hardly  see  the  clock 
on  the  mantel.  The  Madonna  above  was  com- 
pletely in  the  shade.  So  he  lighted  the  chandelier 
above  and  sat  down  again,  hoping  that  no  friend, 
either  of  his  own  or  of  Mr.  Bangs,  would  interrupt 
him.  The  desk  was  open  at  his  feet.  The  package 
of  letters  lay  near  him  on  the  table.  He  placed 
his  hand  upon  them,  but  let  it  rest  there.  The 
hour  had  not  quite  arrived  when  he  would  read 
them.  He  fell  again  into  the  reveries  of  the  day. 
He  lingered  over  the  thoughts  of  his  better  life  ere 
he  opened  the  packet  which  told  of  its  end.  For 
the  last  ten  years  he  had  labored  without  ambition, 
and  had  been  successful.  His  name  was  well 
known  as  a  journalist,  and  his  salary  was  ample. 
Before  that  time  he  had  striven  ambitiously,  but 
fruitlessly,  patiently,  but  as  in  a  quicksand,  until, 
on  a  day,  he  had  none  to  strive  for  but  himself, 
and  then  success  had  come.  Since  noon,  seven 
hours  and  twenty-nine  minutes,  said  the  clock 
before  him.  His  anniversary  was  near.  Mr. 
Bixby  drew  the  letters  near  him,  and  untied  the 
package.  Just  then  there  came  a  knock  at  his 
door,  and,  before  he  had  determined  whether  or 
not  he  should  say,  "  Come  in,"  the  door  opened, 
and  an  elderly  gentleman  stepped  into  the  apart- 
ment. Quietly  he  came  in.  There  was  no  sound 
attending  his  entrance  except  the  knock.  Mr. 


48  MR.  BIXBY' S  CHRISTMAS  VISITOR. 

Bixby,  looking  up,  saw  a  man  of  more  than 
ordinary  height,  with  countenance  rigid  and  puri- 
tanical in  expression,  as  though  the  mind  which 
had  formed  it  was  one  influenced  more  by  justice 
than  mercy.  His  eyes  were  concealed  by  a  pair  of 
colored  spectacles,,  but  these,  as  they  caught  and 
reflected  the  light,  were  brighter  and  more  start- 
ling than  any  eyes  could  have  been.  He  was 
dressed  in  a  long  surtout,  which  he  wore  closely 
buttoned,  high  dickey,  and  high  black-silk  stock, 
which  covered  his  throat  to  his  chin.  His  iron- 
gray  hair  was  brushed  somewhat  pompously  back- 
ward over  his  forehead,  and  his  whole  effect  was 
that  of  a  gentleman  of  the  generation  which  wore 
bell-crowned  hats  and  carried  enormous  canes  with 
tassels.  But  what  attracted  Mr.  Bixby's  particular 
attention  were  the  wrinkles  of  his  face.  These 
were  in  all  places  where  wrinkles  should  not  be. 
One  ran  straight  through  the  centre  of  his  fore- 
head, continuing  the  line  of  the  nose  upward  to 
the  hair.  Two  others,  starting  from  the  bridge  of 
the  nose,  ran  diagonally  down  to  the  nostrils.  He 
was  close-shaven,  and  his  lips  were  straight  and 
thin.  These  peculiarities  of  his  visitor  Mr.  Bixby 
had  barely  time  to  mark  when  the  gentleman 
said  : 

"  Ah,  Mr.  Bangs,  I  am  glad  to  find  you  in  !" 

Mr.  Bixby  never  in  his  life  more  desired   to   be 

alone,  and  yet  there  was  something  in  this  old  man 

which  so  attracted  him  that  he  could  not  correct 

his   mistake.     He   felt  a  sudden    fascination    and 


MR.  BIXBY' S  CHRISTMAS  VISITOR.  49 

desire  to  know  more  of  him.  Bangs  was  away 
and  could  not  be  seen.  The  gentleman  could  not 
be  very  well  acquainted  with  Bangs,  very  probably 
never  had  seen  him,  or  he  would  not  have  made 
such  an  error.  But  nothing  but  the  influence 
which  seemed  to  proceed  from  his  visitor  could 
have  induced  Mr.  Bixby  to  answer  as  he  did. 

"  Thank  you,  sir.     Pray,  take  this  chair." 

As  he  said  this,  he  arose  and  wheeled  an  easy- 
chair  to  the  other  side  of  the  table. 

The  elderly  gentleman  sat  down. 

"  You  have  a  very  cheerful  apartment  here,  Mr. 
Bangs." 

"  Yes.     I  always  like  to  be  comfortable." 

"  Of  course,"  said  the  elderly  gentleman. 

"Will  you  remove  your  overcoat,  sir?"  asked 
Mr.  Bixby,  and  immediately  repented  it. 

"  Oh,  no,  I  shall  stop  but  a  moment." 

There  was  an  interval  of  silence.  A  block  of 
coal  broke  open  in  the  grate  and  fell  apart.  A 
jet  of  gas  burst  forth  and  burned,  then  sputtered 
and  went  out.  Mr.  Bixby  wondered  on  what  busi- 
ness he  had  come,  and  why  he  did  not  open  the 
subject  at  once,  if  he  was  only  intending  to  stop  a 
moment. 

"It  is  very  disagreeable  weather  out,"  said  the 
man  with  the  pompous  forelock,  interrupting  his 
reflections. 

"  Snowing  ?"  asked  Bixby. 

"No— sleet." 

"  Very   unpleasant   to   have   far   to   go   such   a 


50  MR.  BIXBY' S  CHRISTMAS  VISITOR. 

night,"  suggested  Bixby,  who  could  think  of 
nothing  better  to  say. 

"  Not  at  all,"  responded  the  old  gentleman, 
authoritatively. 

Bixby  was  silent  again. 

The  old  gentleman,  leaning  with  his  elbow  on 
the  table,  began  again. 

"  You  like  to  live  well,  Mr.  Bangs  ?" 

"  I  try  to,"  answered  Mr.   Bixby. 

"  Yes." 

"  This  must  be  some  relative  of  Bangs  come  to 
deliver  him  a  lecture  on  his  course  of  life.  Why 
don't  he  broach  his  advice  at  once  ?"  thought  Mr. 
Bixby.  The  visitor  here  pulled  a  glove  from  his 
right  hand,  ran  his  fingers  through  his  hair,  and 
then,  in  a  more  business-like  tone,  spoke  again  : 

"  Although  a  stranger  to  you  personally,  Mr. 
Bangs,  I  have  always  taken  a  great  interest  in  your 
family.  Mr.  Bangs,  I  knew  your  father." 

"  Indeed  !     I  never  heard  him  speak — " 

"  No,  I  dare  say  ;  it  was  near  the  end  of  his  life. 
I  was  near  by,  and  rendered  him  some  assistance, 
when  he  died  suddenly  of  apoplexy.  He  was  not 
so  much  of  a  man  as  your  grandfather." 

"Was  he  not?"  asked  Mr.  Bixby,  musingly. 
He  was  thinking  how  old  the  grandfather  of  his 
friend  Bangs  must  have  been. 

"  No,"  continued  the  elderly  gentleman  ;  "  but 
even  his  judgment  I  never  considered  equal  to  that 
of  your  great-grandfather." 

"  Here   is,     indeed,    a   friend — a   friend    of   the 


MR.  BIXB  Y '  S  CHRIS  TMA  S  VISITOR.  5 1 

family.  Why  is  Mr.  Bangs  away  ?"  thought  Mr. 
Bixby,  and  he  bent  his  head  a  little,  and  looked 
under  the  drop-light,  to  get  a  view  of  his  visitor. 
He  saw  only  the  reflection  on  his  spectacles,  and 
drew  back  suddenly,  for  fear  of  being  detected. 

"  You  like  a  good  song,  I  have  heard,  Mr. 
Bangs,"  came  from  the  other  side  of  the  table. 
"  Have  you  any  favorite  ?" 

Mr.  Bixby  did  not  understand  this  at  all.  The 
question  puzzled  him.  Should  he  as  Bangs  fall  in 
the  estimation  of  some  relative  if  he  admitted  the 
fact?  Or  did  his  visitor  intend  to  sing?  How- 
ever, he  felt  compelled  to  be  frank,  so  he  said  : 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  I  like  a  good  song.  Some  of  the 
Scotch  ballads  please  me  most.  There  is  '  The 
Land  o'  the  Leal.'  ' 

"  A  very  fine  song,  sir.  A  very  fine  song.  It  is 
a  credit  to  any  man  to  like  that  song." 

The  old  gentleman  was  excited.  Mr.  Bixby  was 
just  congratulating  himself  on  having  given  Bangs 
a  lift,  when  his  thoughts  were  turned  into  an  alto- 
gether new  channel  by  the  following  remark  : 

"  It  was  my  impression,  however,  that  your  taste 
ran  rather  in  the  way  of  drinking-songs.  I  should 
have  thought  now  you  would  have  said,  '  The 
Coal-Black  Wine.'  ' 

There  was  something  in  the  tone  with  which  this 
was  uttered  that  made  Mr.  Bixby  shudder.  It  ran 
through  his  mind  that  this  man  was  some  enemy 
of  Bangs — that  he  was  dangerous.  Startled  by 
this  sudden  suspicion,  tremblingly  he  again  peered 


52  MR.  BIXBY'S  CHRISTMAS  VISITOR. 

under  the  shade.  The  wrinkle  in  the  line  of  the 
frontal  suture  was  more  deeply  indented.  The 
light  on  the  spectacles  was  brighter  than  ever. 

"  Mr.  Bangs,  I  called  on  your  opposite  neighbor, 
Mr.  Bixby,  to-night.  I  knocked  on  the  door,  but 
he  was  away." 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Bixby,  somewhat  confused. 
He  wished  that  Bangs  had  stayed  at  home,  and 
determined  to  end  the  interview  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible. 

"  Yes.  I  am  sorry.  I  had  a  positive  appoint- 
ment with  him.  I  am  a  great  friend  of  his." 

"  Does  he  know  you  ?" 

"  Oh,  no  ;  we  have  never  met  personally  that  he 
remembers.  I  am  an  old  friend  of  the  family.  He 
suffers  from  the  heart-disease,  and  has  been  expect- 
ing me." 

"  Oh,  you  are  a  physician  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir.  I  attended  his  father  at  his  last  ill- 
ness." 

Mr.  Bixby's  heart  began  to  beat  rapidly.  His 
mind  became  equally  active,  and,  although  he  had 
no  experience  to  be  guided  by,  he  began  to  suspect 
the  nature  of  this  man's  business  with  Bangs.  He 
almost  determined  to  discover  himself,  but  the 
letters  were  yet  unread.  If  that  were  only  done, 
he  would  do  anything  his  visitor  might  request. 
Recalling  the  old  gentleman's  last  words,  he  said, 
at  last,  calmly  : 

"  And  his  mother  ?" 

"  Yes,  and  his  mother." 


MR.  BIXBY'S  CHRISTMAS  VISITOR.  53 

The  old  man's  voice  assumed  almost  a  kindly 
tone. 

"  He  is,  indeed,  a  friend  of  my  family,"  thought 
Mr.  Bixby  ;  and  then  he  started,  for  fear  he  might 
have  spoken  aloud. 

His  eyes  fell  upon  the  packet  of  letters.  He 
must  read  them.  He  must  end  the  interview. 
The  old  doctor  must  have  noticed  Mr.  Bixby's 
eyes,  with  the  tears  rising  in  them,  as  he  tenderly 
touched  the  letters  one  by  one,  for  it  was  with  a 
voice  very  gentle  and  low  that  he  spoke  again. 

"  I  attended  once  a  very  dear  friend  of  his.  It 
must  be  quite  ten  years  ago  now.  Her  name  was 
Margaret.  I  think  she  loved  him,  for  I  remember 
— yes — it  was  one  Christmas-eve,  she  said,  and 
after  that  she  said  no  more,  '  Has  Harry  come  ? '  ' 

Mr.  Bixby  could  bear  no  more.  His  sobs  were 
striving  for  utterance.  His  fingers  grasped  the 
strong  oak  arms  of  his  chair.  It  was  only  the 
thought  of  the  letters  which  gave  him  strength  to 
say  ; 

"  I  am  sorry,  sir.  You  mistake  me.  I  must  ask 
you  to  leave  me.  You  may  come  again.  I  shall 
be  here,  but  I  have  something  I  would  do  to-night. 
I  have  given  you  much  of  my  time.  It  is  already 
late." 

"  It  is  you  who  mistake,  Mr.  Bangs.  But  I  am 
going  now.  I  said  I  would  stop  but  a  moment. 
I  have  kept  my  promise,  as  you  will  see  by  your 
clock." 

Before  his  hands  fell  listless  from  the  arms  of 


54  MR.  BIXBY'S  CHRISTMAS  VISITOR. 

the  chair — before  his  lips  parted,  but  not  for  speech 
— ay,  just  before  that  quick,  strong  pain  in  his 
heart,  Mr.  Bixby  saw  on  the  white  dial  the  black 
hands  yet  pointing  to  the  seven  hours  and  the 
twenty-nine  minutes,  the  pendulum  moveless,  still, 
half-way  on  the  upward  journey  of  the  arc. 

The  elderly  gentleman  arose,  walked  round  the 
table,  and  smiled,  himself,  as  he  saw  a  smile  of 
perfected  happiness  on  the  face  of  the  dead,  when 
so  lately  sorrow  itself  had  been  pictured  on  the 
face  of  the  living. 

"  It  was  hard  to  deceive  him,  but  he  will  thank 
me  now,"  said  he  of  the  gray  locks  and  wrinkled 
visage.  "  And  here  are  the  letters  which  he  does 
not  need." 

Had  the  old  man  no  more  appointments  to  keep  ? 
For  he  took  up  one  of  the  letters  and  opened  it. 
A  lock  of  golden  hair  fell  unnoticed  to  the  floor. 
Then  he  read  silently,  and,  after  a  while,  aloud  : 

"  I  hope  you  will  come  and  see  me  on  Christmas- 
eve,  for  I  am  not  well.  I  long  for  you  more  than 
I  can  say.  You  must  be  tired  with  your  struggle 
in  the  great  city,  and  need  rest.  O  Harry  !  come 
and  comfort  her  that  loves  you,  as  you  well  know. 

"  MARGARET." 

The  bells  of  Trinity  commenced  ringing. 

"  He  was  tired,  and  he  needed  rest,"  said  Death. 


ELI. 

BY  C.  H.  WHITE. 

I. 

UNDER  a  boat,  high  and  dry,  at  low  tide,  on 
the  beach,  John  Wood  was  seated  in  the 
sand,  sheltered  from  the  sun  in  the  boat's  shadow, 
absorbed  in  the  laying  on  of  verdigris.  The  dull, 
worn  color  was  rapidly  giving  place  to  a  brilliant, 
shining  green.  Occasionally  a  scraper,  which  lay 
by,  was  taken  up  to  remove  the  last  trace  of  a  bar- 
nacle. 

It  was  Wood's  boat,  but  he  was  not  a  boatman  ; 
he  painted  cleverly,  but  he  was  not  a  painter.  He 
kept  the  brown  store  under  the  elms  of  the  main 
street,  now  hot  and  still,  where  at  this  moment  his 
blushing  sister  was  captivating  the  heart  of  an 
awkward  farmer's  boy,  as  she  sold  him  a  pair  of 
striped  suspenders. 

***  Century  Magazine,  November,  1881. 


56  ELI. 

As  the  church-clock  struck  the  last  of  twelve 
decided  blows,  three  children  came  rushing  out  of 
the  house  on  the  bank  above  the  beach.  It  was 
one  of  those  deceptive  New  England  cottages, 
weather-worn  without,  but  bright  and  bountifully 
home-like  within — with  its  trim  parlor,  proud  of  a 
cabinet  organ  ;  with  its  front  hall,  now  cooled  by 
the  light  sea-breeze  drifting  through  the  blind- 
door,  where  a  tall  clock  issued  its  monotonous  call 
to  a  siesta  on  the  rattan  lounge  ;  with  its  spare 
room,  open  now,  opposite  the  parlor,  and  now, 
too,  drawing  in  the  salt  air  through  close-shut 
blinds,  in  anticipation  of  the  joyful  arrival  this 
evening  of  Sister  Sarah,  with  her  little  brood,  from 
the  city. 

The  children  scampered  across  the  road,  and  then 
the  eldest  hushed  the  others  and  sent  a  little 
brother  ahead  to  steal,  barefoot,  along  the  shining 
sea-weed  to  his  father. 

The  plotted  surprise  appeared  to  succeed  com- 
pletely. The  painter  was  seized  by  the  ears  from 
behind,  and  captured. 

"  Guess  who's  here,  or  you  can't  get  up,"  said 
the  infant  captor. 

"  It's  Napoleon  Bonaparte  ;  don't  joggle,"  said 
his  father,  running  a  brush  steadily  along  the 
water-line. 

"  No  !  no  !  no  !"  with  shouts  of  laughter  from 
the  whole  attacking  party. 

"  Then  it's  Captain  Ezekiel  ?" 

This  excited  great  merriment  :  Captain  Ezekiel 


ELI.  57 

was   an    aged,    purblind    man,    who    leaned    on    a 
cane. 

After  attempts  to  identify  the  invader  —  with 
the  tax-collector  come  for  taxes,  then  with  the 
elderly  minister  making  a  pastoral  call,  with  the 
formal  schoolmaster,  and  with  Samuel  J.  Tilden 
— the  victim  reached  over  his  shoulder,  and,  seizing 
the  assailant  by  a  handful  of  calico  jacket,  brought 
him  around,  squirming,  before  him. 

"  Now,"  he  said,  "  I'll  give  you  a  coat  of  ver- 
digris.' ' 

(Great  applause  from  the  reserve  force  behind.) 

"  I  suppose  Mother  sent  you  to  say  dinner's 
ready,"  said  the  father,  rising  and  surveying  the 
green  bottom  of  the  boat.  "  I  must  eat  quick,  so 
as  to  do  the  other  side  before  half-flood." 

And  with  a  child  on  each  shoulder,  and  the  third 
pushing  him  from  behind  with  her  head,  he 
marched  toward  the  vine-covered  kitchen,  where, 
between  two  opposite  netted  doors,  the  table  was 
trimly  set. 

"Father,  you  look  like  a^  mermaid,  with  your 
green  hands,"  said  his  wife,  laughing,  as  she 
handed  him  the  spirits  of  turpentine.  "  A  woman 
could  paint  that  boat,  in  a  light  dress,  and  not  get 
a  spot  on  her." 

He  smiled  good-naturedly  :  he  never  spoke 
much. 

"  I  guess  Louise  won't  have  much  trade  to-day," 
said  his  wife,  as  they  all  sat  down  ;  "  it's  so  hot 
in  the  sun  that  everybody'll  wait  till  night.  But 


58  ELL 

she  has  her  tatting-work  to  do,  and  she's  got  a 
book,  too,  that  she  wanted  to  finish." 

Her  husband  nodded,  and  ate  away. 

"  Oh,  can't  we  go  up  street  and  see  her,  this 
afternoon  ?"  said  one  of  the  children. 

"Who  can  that  be?"  said  the  mother,  as  an 
elderly,  half-official-looking  man  stopped  his  horse 
at  the  front  gate  and  alighted.  The  man  left  the 
horse  unchecked  to  browse  by  the  road-side,  and 
came  to  the  door. 

"  Oh,  it's  you,  Captain  Nourse,"  said  Wood, 
rising  to  open  the  netting  door,  and  holding  out 
his  hand.  "  Come  to  summons  me  as  a  witness  in 
something  about  the  bank  case,  I  suppose.  Let 
me  introduce  Captain  Nourse,  Mary,"  he  said, 
"  deputy  sheriff.  Sit  down,  Captain,  and  have 
some  dinner  with  us." 

"  No,  I  guess  I  won't  set,"  said  the  captain. 
"  I  cal'lated  not  to  eat  till  I  got  home,  in  the  mid- 
dle o'  the  a'ternoon.  No,  I'll  set  down  in  eye-shot 
of  the  mare,  and  read  the  paper  while  you  eat." 

"  I  hope  they  don't  want  me  to  testify  anywhere 
to-day,"  said  Wood  ;  "  because  my  boat's  half 
verdigris' d,  and  I  want  to  finish  her  this  after- 
noon." 

"  No  testimony  to-day,"  said  the  captain. 
"  Hi  !  hi  !  Kitty  !"  he  called  to  the  mare,  as  she 
began  to  meander  across  the  road  ;  and  he  went 
out  to  a  tree  by  the  front  fence,  and  sat  down  on  a 
green  bench,  beside  a  work-basket  and  a  half- fin- 
ished child's  dress,  and  read  the  country  paper 
which  he  had  taken  from  the  office  as  he  came  along. 


ELL  59 

After  dinner  Wood  went  out  bareheaded,  and 
leaned  on  the  fence  by  the  captain.  His  wife 
stood  just  inside  the  door,  looking  out  at  them. 

The  "  bank  case"  was  the  great  sensation  of  the 
town,  and  Wood  was  one  of  the  main  witnesses, 
for  he  had  been  taking  the  place  of  the  absent 
cashier  when  the  safe  was  broken  open  and  rifled, 
to  the  widespread  distress  of  depositors  and  stock- 
holders and  the  ruin  of  Hon.  Edward  Clark,  the 
president.  Wood  had  locked  the  safe  on  the  after- 
noon before  the  eventful  night,  and  had  carried 
home  the  key  with  him,  and  he  was  to  testify  to 
the  contents  of  the  safe  as  he  had  left  it. 

"  I  guess  they're  glad  they've  got  such  a  witness 
as  John,"  said  his  wife  to  herself,  as  she  looked  at 
him  fondly,  "  and  I  guess  they  think  there  won't 
be  much  doubt  about  what  he  sa)^." 

"  Well,  Captain,"  said  Wood,  jocosely,  breaking 
a  spear  of  grass  to  bits  in  his  fingers,  "  I  didn't 
know  but  you'd  come  to  arrest  me." 

The  captain  calmly  smiled  as  only  a  man  can 
smile  who  has  been  accosted  with  the  same  humor- 
ous remark  a  dozen  times  a  day  for  twenty  years. 
He  folded  his  paper  carefully,  put  it  in  his  pocket, 
took  off  his  spectacles  and  put  them  in  their  silver 
case,  took  a  red  silk  handkerchief  from  his  hat, 
wiped  his  face,  and  put  the  handkerchief  back. 
Then  he  said,  shortly  : 

"  That's  what  I  have  come  for." 

Wood,  still  leaning  on  the  fence,  looked  at  him, 
and  said  nothing. 

"  That's  just  what  I've  come  for,"  said   Captain 


60  ELI. 

Nourse.  "  I've  got  to  arrest  you  ;  here's  the  war- 
rant." And  he  handed  it  to  him. 

"  What  does  this  mean  ?"  said  Wood.  "  I  can't 
make  head  nor  tail  of  this." 

"  Well,"  said  the  captain,  "  the  long  and  short 
is  :  these  high-toned  detectives  that  they've  had 
down  from  town,  seein'  as  our  own  force  wasn't 
good  enough,  allow  that  the  safe  was  unlocked 
with  a  key,  in  due  form,  and  then  the  lock  was 
broke  afterward,  to  look  as  if  it  had  been  forced 
open.  They've  had  the  foreman  of  the  safe-men 
down,  too,  and  he  says  the  same  thing.  Naturally, 
the  argument  is  :  there  were  only  two  keys  in 
existence  ;  one  was  safe  with  the  president  of  the 
bank,  and  is  about  all  he's  got  to  show  out  of  forty 
years'  savings  ;  the  only  other  one  you  had  :  con- 
sequently it  heaves  it  on  to  you." 

"  I  see,"  said  Wood.  "  I  will  go  with  you.  Do 
you  want  to  come  into  the  house  with  me  while  I 
get  my  coat  ?" 

"  Well,  I  suppose  I  must  keep  you  in  sight — 
now,  you  know." 

And  they  went  into  the  house. 

"  Mary,"  said  her  husband,  "  the  folks  that  lost 
by  Clark  when  the  bank  broke  have  been  at  him 
until  he's  felt  obliged  to  pitch  on  somebody,  and 
he's  pitched  on  me  ;  and  Captain  Nourse  has  come 
to  arrest  me.  I  shall  get  bail  before  long." 

She  said  nothing,  and  did  not  shed  a  tear  till  he 
was  gone. 

But  then 


ELI.  6 1 


II. 


WIDE  wastes  of  salt  marsh  to  the  right,  imprison- 
ing the  upland  with  a  vain  promise  of  infinite 
liberty,  and,  between  low,  distant  sand-hills,  a  rim 
of  sea.  Stretches  of  pine  woods  behind,  shutting 
in  from  the  great  outer  world,  and  soon  to  darken 
into  evening  gloom.  Ploughed  fields  and  elm-dotted 
pastures  to  the  left,  and  birch-lined  roads  leading 
by  white  farm-houses  to  the  village,  all  speaking 
of  cheer  and  freedom  to  the  prosperous  and  the 
happy,  but  to  the  unfortunate  and  the  indebted,  of 
meshes  invisible  but  strong  as  steel.  But,  before, 
no  lonesome  marshes,  no  desolate  forest,  no  farm 
or  village  street,  but  the  free  blue  ocean,  rolling 
and  tumbling  still  from  the  force  of  an  expended 
gale. 

In  the  open  door-way  of  a  little  cottage,  warmed 
by  the  soft  slanting  rays  of  the  September  sun,  a 
rough  man,  burnt  and  freckled,  was  sitting,  at  his 
feet  a  net,  engaged  upon  some  handiwork  which 
two  little  girls  were  watching.  Close  by  him  lay 
a  setter,  his  nose  between  his  paws.  Occasionally 
the  man  raised  his  eyes  to  scan  the  sea. 

"  There's  Joel,"  he  said,  "  comin'  in  around  the 
Bar.  Not  much  air  stirrin'  now  !" 

Then  he  turned  to  his  work  again. 

"  First,  you  go  so  fash',"  he  said  to  the  children, 
as  he  drew  a  thread  ;  "  then  you  go  so  fash'." 


62  ELI. 

And  as  he  worked  he  made  a  great  show  of 
labor,  much  to  their  diversion. 

But  the  sight  of  Joel's  broad  white  sail  had  not 
brought  pleasant  thoughts  to  his  mind.  For  Joel 
had  hailed  him,  off  the  Shoal,  the  afternoon  be- 
fore, and  had  obligingly  offered  to  buy  his  fish, 
right  there,  and  so  let  him  go  directly  home,  omit- 
ting to  mention  that  sudden  jump  of  price  due  to 
an  empty  market. 

"  Wonder  what  poor  man  he's  took  a  dollar  out 
of  to-day  !  Well,  I  s'pose  it's  all  right  :  those 
that's  got  money,  want  money." 

"  What  be  you;  Eli — ganging  on  hooks  ?"  said 
Aunt  Patience,  as  she  tip-toed  into  the  kitchen 
behind  him,  from  his  wife's  sick-room,  and  softly 
closed  the  door  after  her. 

"  No,"  said  the  elder  of  the  children  ;  "  he's 
mending  our  stockings,  and  showing  me  how." 

"Well,  you  do  have  a  hard  time,  don't  you?" 
said  Aunt  Patience,  looking  down  over  his 
shoulder  ;  "to  slave  and  tug  and  scrape  to  get  a 
house  over  your  head,  and  then  to  have  to  turn 
square  'round,  and  stay  to  home  with  a  sick 
woman,  and  eat  all  into  it  with  mortgages  !" 

"  Oh,  well,"  he  said,  "  we'll  fetch,  somehow." 

Aunt  Patience  went  to  the  glass,  and  bolting  a 
black  pin  in  her  mouth,  carefully  tied  the  strings 
of  her  sun-bonnet. 

"Anyway,"  she  says,  "you  take  it  good- 
natured.  Though  if  there  is  one  thing  that's 
harder  than  another,  it  is  to  be  good-natured  all 


ELI.  63 

the  time,  without  being  aggravating.  I  have 
known  men  that  was  so  awfully  good-natured  that 
they  was  harder  to  live  with  than  if  they  was 
cross  !' ' 

And  without  specifying  further,  she  opened  her 
plaid  parasol,  and  stepped  out  at  the  porch. 

THOUGH,  on  this  quiet  afternoon  of  Saturday, 
the  peace  of  the  approaching  Sabbath  seemed 
already  brooding  over  the  little  dwelling,  peace 
had  not  lent  her  hand  to  the  building  of  the  home. 
Every  foot  of  land,  every  shingle,  every  nail,  had 
been  wrung  from  the  reluctant  sea.  Every  voyage 
had  contributed  something.  It  was  a  great  day 
when  Eli  was  able  to  buy  the  land.  Then,  between 
two  voyages,  he  dug  a  cellar  and  laid  a  founda- 
tion ;  then  he  saved  enough  to  build  the  main  part 
of  the  cottage  and  to  finish  the  front  room,  lending 
his  own  hand  to  the  work.  Then  he  used  to  get 
letters  at  every  port,  telling  of  progress — how 
Lizzie,  his  wife,  had  adorned  the  front  room  with 
a  bright  nine-penny  paper,  of  which  a  little  piece 
was  inclosed,  which  he  kept  as  a  sort  of  charm 
about  him  and  exhibited  to  his  friends  ;  how  she 
and  her  little  brother  had  lathed  the  entry  and  the 
kitchen,  and  how  they  had  set  out  blackberry  vines 
from  the  woods.  Then  another  letter  told  of  a 
surprise  awaiting  him  on  his  return  ;  and,  in  due 
time,  coming  home  as  third  mate  from  Hong  Kong 
to  a  seaman's  tumultuous  welcome,  he  had  found 
that  a  great,  good-natured  mason,  with  whose  sick 


64  ELL 

child  his  wife  had  watched,  night  after  night,  had 
appeared  one  day  with  lime  and  hair  and  sand,  and 
in  white  raiment,  and  had  plastered  the  entry  and 
the  kitchen,  and  finished  a  room  upstairs. 

And  so,  for  years,  at  home  and  on  the  sea,  at 
New  York,  and  at  Valparaiso,  and  in  the  Straits  of 
Malacca,  the  little  house  and  the  little  family 
within  it  had  grown  into  the  fibre  of  Eli's  heart. 
Nothing  had  given  him  more  delight  than  to  meet, 
in  the  strange  streets  of  Calcutta  or  before  the 
Mosque  of  Omar,  some  practical  Yankee  from 
Stonington  or  Machias,  and,  whittling,  to  discuss 
with  him,  among  the  turbans  of  the  Orient,  the 
comparative  value  of  shaved  and  of  sawed  shingles, 
or  the  economy  of  "  Swedes-iron"  nails,  and  to  go 
over  with  him  the  estimates  and  plans  which  he 
had  worked  out  in  his  head  under  all  the  constel- 
lations of  the  skies. 

THE  supper  things  were  cleared  away.  The  chil- 
dren had  said  good-night  and  gone  to  bed,  and  Eli 
had  been  sitting  for  an  hour  by  his  wife's  bedside. 
He  had  had  to  tax  his  patience  and  ingenuity  heavily 
during  the  long  months  that  she  had  lain  there  to 
entertain  her  for  a  little  while  in  the  evening,  after 
his  hard,  wet  day's  work.  He  had  been  talking 
now  of  the  coming  week,  when  he  was  to  serve 
upon  the  jury  in  the  adjoining  county-town. 

"  I  cal'late  I  can  come  home  about  every  night," 
he  said,  "  and  it'll  be  quite  a  change,  at  any  rate." 

"  But  you  don't  seem  so  cheerful   about  it  as  I 


ELL  65 

counted  you  would  be,"  said  his  wife.  "  Are  you 
afraid  you'll  have  to  be  on  the  bank-case  ?" 

"Not  much!"  he  answered.  "No  trouble  'n 
that  case  !  Jury  won't  leave  their  seats.  These 
city  fellers' 11  find  they've  bit  off  rnore'n  they  can 
chew  when  they  try  to  figure  out  John  Wood  done 
that.  I  only  hope  I'll  have  the  luck  to  be  on  that 
case — all  hands  on  the  jury  whisper  together  a 
minute,  and  then  clear  him,  right  on  the  spot,  and 
then  shake  hands  with  him  all  'round  !  " 

"  But  something  is  worrying  you,"  she  said. 
"  What  is  it  ?  You  have  looked  it  since  noon." 

"  Oh,  nothin',"  he  replied  —  "  only  George 
Cahoon  came  up  to-noon  to  say  that  he  was  goin' 
West  next  week,  and  that  he  would  have  to  have 
that  money  he  let  me  have  a  while  ago.  And  where 
to  get  it — I  don't  know." 


III. 


THE  court-room  was  packed.  John  Wood's  trial 
was  drawing  to  its  close.  Eli  was  on  the  jury. 
Some  one  had  advised  the  prosecuting  attorney,  in 
a  whisper,  to  challenge  him,  but  he  had  shaken  his 
head  and  said  : 

"  Oh,  I  couldn't  afford  to  challenge  him  for  that  ; 
it  would  only  leak  out,  and  set  the  jury  against 
me.  I'll  risk  his  standing  out  against  this  evi- 
dence." 

The  trial  had  been  short.     It  had  been  shown  how 


66  ELI. 

the  little  building  of  the  bank  had  been  entered. 
Skilled  locksmiths  from  the  city  had  testified  that 
the  safe  was  opened  with  a  key,  and  that  the  lock 
was  broken  afterward,  from  the  inside — plainly  to 
raise  the  theory  of  a  forcible  entry  by  strangers. 

It  had  been  proved  that  the  only  key  in  exist- 
ence, not  counting  that  kept  by  the  president,  was 
in  the  possession  of  Wood,  who  was  filling,  for  a 
few  days,  the  place  of  the  cashier — the  president's 
brother — in  his  absence.  It  had  been  shown  that 
Wood  was  met,  at  one  o'clock  of  the  night  in 
question,  crossing  the  fields  toward  his  home,  from 
the  direction  of  the  bank,  with  a  large  wicker 
basket  slung  over  his  shoulders,  returning,  as  he 
had  said,  from  eel-spearing  in  Harlow's  Creek  ; 
and  there  was  other  circumstantial  evidence. 

Mr.  Clark,  the  president  of  the  ba.nk,  had  won 
the  sympathy  of  every  one  by  the  modest  way  in 
which,  with  eye-glasses  in  hand,  he  had  testi- 
fied to  the  particulars  of  the  loss  which  had  left 
him  penniless,  and  had  ruined  others  whose  little 
all  was  in  his  hands.  And  then,  in  reply  to  the 
formal  question,  he  had  testified,  amid  roars  of 
laughter  from  the  court-room,  that  it  was  not  he 
who  robbed  the  safe.  At  this,  even  the  judge  and 
Wood's  lawyer  had  not  restrained  a  smile. 

This  had  left  the  guilt  with  Wood.  His  lawyer, 
an  inexperienced  young  attorney — who  had  done 
more  or  less  business  for  the  bank,  and  would 
hardly  have  ventured  to  defend  this  case  but  that 
the  president  had  kindly  expressed  his  entire  will- 


67 

ingness  that  he  should  do  so — had,  of  course,  not 
thought  it  worthwhile  to  cross-examine  Mr.  Clark, 
and  had  directed  his  whole  argument  against  the 
theory  that  the  safe  had  been  opened  with  a  key, 
and  not  by  strangers.  But  he  had  felt  all  through 
that,  as  a  man  politely  remarked  to  him  when  he 
finished,  he  was  only  butting  his  "  head  ag'in  a 
stone  wall." 

And  while  he  was  arguing,  a  jolly-looking  old 
lawyer  had  written,  in  the  fly-leaf  of  a  law-book  on 
his  knee,  and  passed  with  a  wink  to  a  young  man 
near  him  who  had  that  very  morning  been 
admitted  to  the  bar,  these  lines  : 

"When  callow  Blackstones  soar  too  high, 
Quit  common-sense,  and  reckless  fly, 
Soon,  Icarus-like,  they  headlong  fall, 
And  down  come  client,  case,  and  all." 

The  district-attorney  had  not  thought  it  worth 
while  to  expend  much  strength  upon  his  closing 
argument  ;  but  being  a  jovial  stump-speaker,  of  a 
wide  reputation  within  narrow  limits,  he  had  not 
been  able  to  refrain  from  making  merry  over 
Wood's  statement  that  the  basket  which  he  had 
been  seen  bearing  home,  on  the  eventful  night,  was 
a  basket  of  eels. 

"  Fine  eels  those,  gentlemen  !  We  have  seen 
gold-fish  and  silver-fish,  but  golden  eels  are  first 
discovered  by  this  defendant.  The  apostle,  in 
Holy  Writ,  caught  a  fish  with  a  coin  in  its  mouth  ; 
but  this  man  leaves  the  apostle  in  the  dim  distance 


68  ELI. 

when  he  finds  eels  that  are  all  money.  No  storied 
fisherman  of  Bagdad,  catching  enchanted  princes 
disguised  as  fishes  in  the  sea,  ever  hooked  such  a 
treasure  as  this  defendant  hooked  when  he  hooked 
that  basket  of  eels  !  [Rustling  appreciation  of  the 
pun  among  the  jury.]  If  a  squirming,  twisting, 
winding,  wriggling  eel,  gentleman,  can  be  said  at 
any  given  moment  to  have  a  back,  we  may  distin- 
guish this  new-found  species  as  the  green-back  eel. 
It  is  a  common  saying  that  no  man  can  hold  an  eel 
and  remain  a  Christian.  I  should  like  to  have 
viewed  the  pious  equanimity  of  this  church-mem- 
ber when  he  laid  his  hands  an  that  whole  bed  of 
eels.  In  happy,  barefoot  boyhood,  gentlemen,  we 
used  to  find  mud-turtles  marked  with  initials  or  de- 
vices cut  in  their  shells  ;  but  what  must  have  been 
our  friend's  surprise  to  find,  in  the  muddy  bed  of 
Harlow's  Creek,  eels  marked  with  a  steel-engraving 
of  the  landing  of  Columbus,  and  the  signature  of 
the  Register  of  the  Treasury  !  I  hear  that  a  cor- 
poration is  now  being  formed  by  the  title  of  The 
Harlow's  Creek  Greenback  National  Bank-bill  Eel- 
fishing  Company,  to  follow  up,  with  seines  and 
spears,  our  worthy  friend's  discovery  !  I  learn  that 
the  news  of  this  rich  placer  has  spread  to  the 
golden  mountains  of  the  West,  and  that  the  ex- 
hausted intellects  which  have  been  reduced  to  such 
names  for  their  mines  as  '  The  Tombstone,'  '  The 
Red  Dog,'  the  '  Mrs.  E.  J.  Parkhurst,'  are  likely 
now  to  flood  us  with  prospectuses  of  the  '  Eel 
Mine,'  '  The  Flat  Eel,'  '  The  Double  Eel,'  and  then, 


ELI.  69 

when  they  get  ready  to  burst  upon  confiding 
friends,  '  The  Consolidated  Eels.'  " 

It  takes  but  little  to  make  a  school  or  a  court- 
room laugh,  and  the  speech  had  appeared  to  give 
a  good  deal  of  amusement  to  the  listeners. 

To  all  ? 

Did  it  amuse  that  man  who  sat,  with  folded 
arms,  harsh  and  rigid,  at  the  dock  ?  Did  it  divert 
that  white-faced  woman,  cowering  in  a  corner, 
listening  as  in  a  dream  ? 

THE  judge  now  charged  the  jury  briefly.  It  was 
unnecessary  for  him,  he  said,  to  recapitulate 
evidence  of  so  simple  a  character.  The  chief  ques- 
tion for  the  jury  was  as  to  the  credibility  of  the 
witnesses.  If  the  witnesses  for  the  prosecution 
were  truthful  and  were  not  mistaken,  the  inference 
of  guilt  seemed  inevitable  ;  this  the  defendant's 
counsel  had  conceded.  The  defendant  had  proved 
a  good  reputation  ;  upon  that  point  there  was  only 
this  to  be  said  :  that,  while  such  evidence  was 
entitled  to  weight,  yet,  on  the  other  hand,  crimes 
involving  a  breach  of  trust  could,  from  their  very 
nature,  be  committed  only  by  persons  whose  good 
reputations  secured  them  positions  of  trust. 

THE  jury-room  had  evidently  not  been  furnished 
by  a  ring.  There  was  a  long  table  for  debate, 
twelve  hard  chairs  for  repose,  twelve  spittoons  for 
luxury,  and  a  clock. 

The  jury  sat  in  silence    for  a  few  moments,  as 


70  ELL 

old  Captain  Nourse,  who  had  them  in  his  keeping, 
and  eyed  them  as  if  he  was  afraid  that  he  might  lose 
one  of  them  in  a  crack  and  be  held  accountable  on 
his  bond,  rattled  away  at  the  unruly  lock.  Look- 
ing at  them  then,  you  would  have  seen  faces  all  of 
a  New  England  cast  but  one.  There  was  a  tall, 
powerful  negro  called  George  Washington,  a  man 
well  known  in  this  county  town,  to  which  he  had 
come,  as  driftwood  from  the  storm  of  war,  in  '65. 
Some  of  the  "  boys"  had  heard  him,  in  a  great 
prayer-meeting  in  Washington — a  city  which  he 
always  spoke  of  as  his  "  namesake" — at  the  time 
of  the  great  review,  say,  in  his  strong  voice,  with 
that  pathetic  quaver  in  it  :  "  Like  as  de  parched 
an'  weary  traveller  hangs  his  harp  upon  de  winder, 
an'  sighs  for  oysters  in  de  desert,  so  I  longs  to 
res'  my  soul  an'  my  foot  in  Mass'chusetts  ;"  and 
they  were  so  delighted  with  him  that  they  invited 
him  on  the  spot  to  go  home  with  them,  and  took 
up  a  collection  to  pay  his  fare,  and  so  he  was  a 
public  character.  As  for  his  occupation — when  the 
census-taker,  with  a  wink  to  the  boys  in  the  store, 
had  asked  him  what  it  was,  he  had  said,  in  that 
same  odd  tone  :  "  Putties  up  glass  a  little — white- 
washes a  little — "  and,  when  the  man  had  made  a 
show  of  writing  all  that  down,  "  preaches  a  little." 
He  might  have  said  "  preaches  a  big,"  for  you 
could  hear  him  half  a  mile  away. 

The  foreman  was  a  retired  sea-captain.  "  Good 
cap'n — Cap'n  Thomas,"  one  of  his  neighbors  had 
said  of  him.  "  Allers  gits  good  ships — never  hez 


ELI.  7 1 

to  go  huntin*  'round  for  a  vessel.  But  it  is 
astonishin*  what  differences  they  is  !  Now  there's 
Cap'n  A.  K.  P.  Bassett,  down  to  the  West  Harbor. 
You  let  it  git  'round  that  Cap'n  A.  K.  P.  is  goin' 
off  on  a  Chiny  voyage,  and  you'll  see  half  a  dozen 
old  shays  to  onct,  hitched  all  along  his  fence  of  an 
arternoon,  and  vvimmen  inside  the  house,  to  git 
Cap'n  A.  K.  P.  to  take  their  boys.  But  you  let 
Cap'n  Thomas  give  out  that  he  wants  boys,  and  he 
hez  to  glean  'em — from  the  poor-house,  and  from 
step-mothers,  and  where  he  can  :  the  wimmen 
knows  !  Still,"  he  added,  "  Cap'n  Thomas  's  a 
good  cap'n.  I've  nothin'  to  say  ag'in  him.  He's 
smart  !" 

"  GENTLEMEN,"  said  the  foreman,  when  the  of- 
ficer, at  last,  had  securely  locked  them  in,  "  shall 
we  go  through  the  formality  of  a  ballot  ?  If  the 
case  were  a  less  serious  one,  we  might  have 
rendered  a  verdict  in  our  seats." 

"  What's  the  use  foolin'  'round  ballotin'  ?"  said 
a  thick-set  butcher.  "  Ain't  we  all  o'  one  mind  ?" 

"  It  is  for  you  to  say,  gentlemen,"  said  the  fore- 
man. "  I  shouldn't  want  to  have  it  go  abroad  that 
we  had  not  acted  formally,  if  there  was  any  one 
disposed  to  cavil." 

"  Mr.  Speaker,"  said  George  Washington,  rising 
and  standing  in  the  attitude  of  Webster,  "  I  rises 
to  appoint  to  order.  We  took  ballast  in  de  prior 
cases,  and  why  make  flesh  of  one  man  an'  a  fowl 
of  another  ?" 


72  ELI. 

"  Very  well,"  said  the  foreman,  a  trifle  sharply. 

'  The  longest  way  round  is  the  shortest  way 
home.'  ' 

Twelve  slips  of  paper  were  handed  out,  to  be  in- 
dorsed guilty,  "  for  form."  They  were  collected 
in  a  hat  and  the  foreman  told  them  over — "  just 
for  form."  "  '  Guilty,'  '  guilty,'  '  guilty,'  '  guilty  '; 
— wait  a  minute,"  he  said,  "  here  is  a  mistake. 
Here  is  one  '  not  guilty  ' — whose  is  this  ?" 

There  was  a  pause. 

"  Whose  is  it  ?"  said  the  foreman,  sharply. 

Eli  turned  a  little  red. 

"  It's  mine,"  he  said. 

"  Do  you  mean  it  ?"  said  the  foreman. 

"  Of  course  I  mean  it,"  he  answered. 

"  Whew  !"  whistled  the  foreman.  "  Very  well, 
sir  ;  we'll  have  an  understanding,  then.  This  case 
is  proved  to  the  satisfaction  of  every  man  who 
heard  it,  I  may  safely  say,  but  one.  Will  that  one 
please  state  the  grounds  of  his  opinion  ?" 

"  I  ain't  no  talker,"  said  Eli,  "  but  I  ain't  satis- 
fied he's  guilty — that's  all." 

"  Don't  you  believe  the  witnesses  ?" 

"Mostly." 

"  Which  one  don't  you  believe  ?" 

"  I  can't  say.     I  don't  believe  he's  guilty." 

"  Is  there  one  that  you  think  lied  ?'' 

No  answer. 

"  Now  it  seems  to  me "  said  a  third  juryman. 

"  One  thing  at  a  time,  gentlemen,"  said  the 
foreman.  "  Let  us  wait  for  an  answer  from  Mr. 


ELI.  73 

Smith.  Is  there  any  one  that  you  think  lied  ?  We 
will  wait,  gentlemen,  for  an  answer." 

There  was  a  long  pause.  The  trial  seemed  to 
Eli  Smith  to  have  shifted  from  the  court  to  this 
shabby  room,  and  he  was  now  the  culprit. 

All  waited  for  him  ;  all  eyes  were  fixed  upon  him. 

The  clock  ticked  loud  !  Eli  counted  the  seconds. 
He  knew  the  determination  of  the  foreman. 

The  silence  became  intense. 

"  I  want  to  say  my  say,"  said  a  short  man  in  a 
pea-jacket — a  retired  San  Francisco  pilot,  named 
Eldridge.  "  I  entertain  no  doubt  the  man  is 
guilty.  At  the  same  time,  I  allow  for  differences 
of  opinion.  I  don't  know  this  man  that's  voted 
'  not  guilty,'  but  he  seems  to  be  a  well-meaning 
man.  I  don't  know  his  reasons  ;  probably  he 
don't  understand  the  case.  I  should  like  to  have 
the  foreman  tell  the  evidence  over,  so  as  if  he 
don't  see  it  clear,  he  can  ask  questions,  and  we  can 
explain." 

"  I  second  demotion,"  said  George  Washington. 

There  was  a  general  rustle  of  approval. 

"  I  move  it,"  said  the  pilot,  encouraged. 

"  Very  well,  Mr.  Eldridge,"  said  the  foreman. 
"  If  there  is  no  objection,  I  will  state  the  evidence, 
and  if  there  is  any  loop-hole,  I  will  trouble  Mr. 
Smith  to  suggest  it  as  I  go  along,"  and  he  pro- 
ceeded to  give  a  summary  of  the  testimony,  with 
homely  force. 

"  Now,  sir?"  he  said,  when  he  had  finished. 

"  I  move  for  another  ballot,"  said  Mr.  Eldridge. 


74  ELI. 

The  result  was  the  same.  Eli  had  voted  "  not 
guilty." 

"  Mr.   Smith,"   said  the  foreman,  "  this  must  be 
settled  in  some  way.     This  is  no  child's  play.  You* 
can't  keep  eleven   men   here,  trifling  with   them, 
giving  no  pretence  of  a  reason." 

"  I  haven't  any  reasons,  only  that  I  don't  believe 
he's  guilty,"  said  Eli.  "  I'm  not  goin'  to  vote  a 
man  into  states-prison,  when  I  don't  believe  he 
done  it,"  and  he  rose  and  walked  to  the  window, 
and  looked  out.  It  was  low  tide.  There  was  a 
broad  stretch  of  mud  in  the  distance,  covered  with 
boats  lying  over  disconsolate.  A  driving  storm 
had  emptied  the  streets.  He  beat  upon  the  rain- 
dashed  glass  a  moment  with  his  fingers,  and  then 
he  sat  down  again. 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  the  foreman,  "  this  is  singular 
conduct.  What  do  you  propose  to  do  ?" 

Silence. 

"  I  suppose  you  realize  that  the  rest  of  us  are 
pretty  rapidly  forming  a  conclusion  on  this  mat- 
ter," said  the  foreman. 

"  Come  !  come  !"  said  Mr.  Eldridge  ;  "  don't  be 
quite  so  hard  on  him,  Captain.  Now,  Mr.  Smith," 
he  said,  standing  up  with  his  hands  in  his  coat- 
pockets,  and  looking  at  Eli,  "  we  know  that  there 
often  is  crooked  sticks  on  juries,  that  hold  out 
alone — that's  to  be  expected  ;  but  they  always 
argue,  and  stand  to  it  the  rest  are  fools,  and  all 
that.  Now,  all  is,  we  don't  see  why  you  don't 
sort  of  argue,  if  you've  got  reasons  satisfactory  to 


ELL  75 

you.  Come,  now,"  he  added,  walking  up  to  Eli, 
and  resting  one  foot  on  the  seat  of  his  chair,  "  why 
don't  you  tell  it  over  ?  and  if  we're  wrong,  I'm 
ready  to  join  you." 

Eli  looked  up  at  him. 

"  Didn't  you  ever  know,"  he  said,  "  of  a  man's 
takin'  a  cat  off,  to  lose,  that  his  little  girl  didn't  want 
drownded,  and  leavin'  him  ashore,  twenty  or  thirty 
miles,  bee-line,  from  home,  and  that  cat's  bein' 
back  again  the  next  day,  purrin'  'round  's  if  nothin' 
had  happened  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Eldridge — "  knew  of  just  such 
a  case." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Eli  ;  "  how  does  he  find  his 
way  home  ?" 

"Don't  know,"  said  Mr.  Eldridge;  "always 
has  been  a  standing  mystery  to  me." 

"  Well,"  said  Eli,  "  mark  my  words.  There's 
such  a  thing  as  arguin',  and  there's  such  a  thing  as 
knowin'  outright  ;  and  when  you'll  tell  me  how 
that  cat  inquires  his  way  home,  I'll  tell  you  how  I 
know  John  Wood  ain't  guilty." 

This  made  a  certain  sensation,  and  Eli's  stock 
went  up. 

An  old,  withered  man  rapped  on  the  table. 

"  That's  so  !"  he  said  ;  "  and  there's  other 
sing'lar  things  !  How  is  it  that  a  sea-farm'  man, 
that's  dyin*  to  home,  will  allers  die  on  the  ebb- 
tide ?  It  never  fails,  but  how  does  it  happen  ?  Tell 
me  that  !  And  there's  more  ways  than  one  of 
knowin'  things,  too  !" 


76  m  ELI. 

"  I  know  that  man  ain't  guilty,"  said  Eli. 

"  Hark  ye  !"  said  a  dark  old  man  with  a  troubled 
face,  rising  and  pointing  his  finger  toward  Eli. 
"  Know,  you  say?  I  knew,  wunst.  I  knew  that 
my  girl,  my  only  child,  was  good.  One  night  she 
went  off  with  a  married  man  that  worked  in  my 
store,  and  stole  my  money — and  where  is  she 
now?"  And  then  he  added,  "What  I  know  is, 
that  every  man  hes  his  price.  I  hev  mine,  and 
you  hev  yourn  !" 

The  impugnment  of  Eli's  motives  was  evident  to 
all. 

'  'Xcuse  me,  Mr.  Speaker,"  said  George  Wash- 
ington, rising  with  his  hand  in  his  bosom  ;  "as 
de  question  is  befo'  us,  I  wish  to  say  that  de  las' 
bro'  mus'  have  spoken  under  'xcitement.  Every 
man  don  have  his  price  !  An'  I  hope  de  bro'  will 
recant — like  as  de  Psalmist  goes  out  o'  his  way  to 
say  '  In  my  haste  I  said,  All  men  are  liars.'  He 
was  a  very  busy  man,  de  Psalmist — writin'  down 
hymns  all  day,  sharpen' n'  his  lead-pencil,  bossin' 
'roun*  de  choir — callin'  Selah  !  Well,  bro'n  an' 
sisters" — both  arms  going  out,  and  his  voice  going 
up — "  one  day,  seems  like,  he  was  in  gre't  haste — 
got  to  finish  a  psalm  for  a  monthly  concert,  or 
such — and  some  man  incorrupted  him,  and  lied  ; 
and  bein'  in  gre't  haste — and  a  little  old  Adam  in 
him — he  says,  right  off,  quick  :  '  ^//men  are  liars  ! ' 
But  see — when  he  gets  a  little  time  to  set  back 
and  meditate,  he  says  :  '  Dis  won'  do — dere's 
Moses,  an'  Job,  an'  Paul — dey  ain't  liars  !  '  An' 


ELI.  77 

den  he  don'  sneak  out,  and  'low  he  said,  '  All  men 
is  lions,'  or  such.  No  !  de  Psalmist  ain't  no  such 
man  ;  but  he  owns  up,  an'  "xplains  :  '  In  my  haste,' 
he  says,  '  I  said  it.'  ' 

The  foreman  rose  and  rapped. 

"  I  await  a  motion,"  said  he,  "  if  our  friend  will 
allow  me  the  privilege  of  speaking." 

Mr.  Washington  calmly  bowed. 

Then  the  foreman,  when  nobody  seemed  dis- 
posed to  move,  speaking  slowly,  at  first,  and  piece- 
meal, alternating  language  with  smoke,  gradually 
edged  into  the  current  of  the  evidence,  and  ended 
by  going  all  over  it  again,  with  fresh  force  and 
point.  His  cigar  glowed  and  chilled  in  the 
darkening  room  as  he  talked. 

"  Now,"  he  said,  when  he  had  drawn  all  the 
threads  together  to  the  point  of  guilt,  "  what  are 
we  going  to  do  upon  this  evidence  ?" 

"  I'll  tell  you  something,"  said  Eli.  "  I  didn't 
want  to  say  it  because  I  know  what  you'll  all 
think,  but  I'll  tell  you,  all  the  same." 

"  Ah  !"  said  the  foreman. 

Eli  stood  up  and  faced  the  others. 

"  'Most  all  o'  you  know  what  our  Bar  is  in  a 
south-east  gale.  They  ain't  a  man  here  that  'uld 
dare  to  try  and  cross  it  when  the  sea's  breakin'  on 
it.  The  man  that  says  he  would,  lies  !"  And  he 
looked  at  the  foreman,  and  waited  a  moment. 

"  When  my  wife  took  sick,  and  I  stopped  goin' 
to  sea,  two  year  ago,  and  took  up  boat-fishin',  I 
didn't  know  half  as  much  about  the  coast  as  the 


78  ELI. 

young  boys  do,  and  one  afternoon  it  was  blowin'  a 
gale,  and  we  was  all  hands  comin*  in,  and  passin' 
along  the  Bar  to  go  sheer  'round  it  to  the  west'ard, 
and  Captain  Fred  Cook — he's  short-sighted — got 
on  to  the  Bar  before  he  knew  it,  and  then  he  had 
to  go  ahead,  whether  or  no  ;  and  I  was  right  after 
him,  and  I  s'posed  he  knew,  and  I  followed  him. 
Well,  he  was  floated  over,  as  luck  was,  all  right  ; 
but  when  I'd  just  got  on  the  Bar,  a  roller  dropped 
back  and  let  my  bowsprit  down  into  the  sand,  and 
then  come  up  quicker'n  lightnin'  and  shouldered 
the  boat  over,  t'other  end  first,  and  slung  me  into 
the  water  ;  and  when  I  come  up,  I  see  somethin' 
black,  and  there  was  John  Wood's  boat  runnin'  by 
me  before  the  wind  with  a  rush — and  'fore  I  knew 
an'thing  he  had  me  by  the  hair  by  one  hand  and  in 
his  boat,  and  we  was  over  the  Bar.  Now,  I  tell 
you,  a  man  that  looks  the  way  I  saw  him  look 
when  I  come  over  the  gunwale,  face  up,  don't  go 
'round  breakin'  in  and  hookin'  things.  He  hadn't 
one  chance  in  five,  and  he  was  a  married  man,  too, 
with  small  children.  And  what's  more,"  he 
added,  incautiously,  "  he  didn't  stop  there.  When 
he  found  out,  this  last  spring,  that  I  was  goin'  to 
lose  my  place,  he  lent  me  money  enough  to  pay 
the  interest  that  was  overdue  on  the  mortgage,  of 
his  own  acord." 

And  he  stopped  suddenly. 

"  You  have  certainly  explained  yourself,"  said 
the  foreman.  "  I  think  we  understand  you  dis- 
tinctly." 


ELL  79 

"  There  isn't  one  word  of  truth  in  that  idea," 
said  Eli,  flushing  up,  "  and  you  know  it.  I've 
paid  him  back  every  cent.  I  know  him  better' n 
any  of  you,  that's  all,  and  when  I  know  he  ain't 
guilty,  I  won't  say  he  is  ;  and  I  can  set  here  as 
long  as  any  other  man." 

"  Lively  times  some  folks' 11  hev,  when  they  go 
home,"  said  a  spare  tin-peddler,  stroking  his  long 
3rellow  goatee.  "  Go  into  the  store  :  nobody  speak 
to  you  ;  go  to  cattle-show  :  everybody  follow  you 
'round  ;  go  to  the  wharf  :  nobody  weigh  your  fish  ; 
go  to  buy  seed-cakes  at  the  cart  :  baker  won't  give 
no  tick." 

"  How  much  does  it  cost,  Mr.  Foreman,"  said 
the  butcher,  "  for  a  man  't's  obliged  to  leave  town, 
to  move  a  family  out  West  ?  I  only  ask  for  infor- 
mation. I  have  known  a  case  where  a  man  had 
to  leave  —  couldn't  live  there  no  longer  —  wa'n't 
wanted." 

There  was  a  knock.  An  officer,  sent  by  the 
judge,  inquired  whether  the  jury  were  likely  soon 
to  agree. 

"  It  rests  with  you,  sir,"  said  the  foreman,  look- 
ing at  Eli. 

But  Eli  sat  doggedly  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  and  did  not  look  up  or  speak. 

"  Say  to  the  judge  that  I  cannot  tell,"  said  the 
foreman. 

It  was  eight  o'clock  when  the  officer  returned, 
with  orders  to  take  the  jury  across  the  street  to  the 
hotel,  to  supper.  They  went  out  in  pairs,  except 


8o  ELI. 

that  the  juryman  who  was  left  to  fall  in  with  Eli 
made  three  with  the  file  ahead,  and  left  Eli  to  walk 
alone.  This  was  noticed  by  the  by  standers.  At 
the  hotel,  Eli  could  not  eat  a  mouthful.  He  was 
seated  at  one  end  of  the  table,  and  was  left  entirely 
out  of  the  conversation.  When  the  jury  were 
escorted  back  to  the  court  house,  rumors  had 
evidently  begun  to  arise  from  his  having  walked 
alone,  for  there  was  quite  a  little  crowd  at  the 
hotel-door,  to  see  them.  They  went  as  before  : 
four  pairs,  a  file  of  three,  and  Eli  alone.  Then  the 
spectators  understood  it. 

WHEN  the  jury  were  locked  into  their  room  again 
for  the  night,  Mr.  Eldridge  sat  down  by  Eli,  and 
lit  his  pipe. 

"  I  understand,"  he  said,  "  just  how  you  feel. 
Now,  between  you  and  me,  there  was  a  good- 
hearted  fellow  that  kept  me  out  of  a  bad  mess  once. 
I've  never  told  anybody  just  what  it  was,  and  I 
don't  mean  to  tell  you  now,  but  it  brought  my 
blood  up  standing,  to  find  how  near  I'd  come  to 
putting  a  fine  steamer  and  two  hundred  and  forty 
passengers  under  water.  Well,  one  day,  a  year  or 
so  after  that,  this  man  had  a  chance  to  get  a  good 
ship,  only  there  was  some  talk  against  him,  that 
he  drank  a  little.  Well,  the  owners  told  him  they 
wanted  to  see  me,  and  he  come  to  me,  and  says  he, 
'Mr.  Eldridge,  I  hope  you'll  speak  a  good  word 
for  me  ;  if  you  do,  I'll  get  the  ship,  but  if  they 
refuse  me  this  one,  I'm  dished  everywhere.'  Well, 


ELI.  8 1 

the  owners  put  me  the  square  question,  and  I  had 
to  tell  'em.  Well,  I  met  him  that  afternoon  on 
Sacramento  Street,  as  white  as  a  sheet,  and  he 
wouldn't  speak  to  me,  but  passed  right  by,  and  that 
night  he  went  and  shipped  before  the  mast.  That's 
the  last  I  ever  heard  of  him.  But  I  had  to  do  it. 

"  Now,"  he  added,  "  this  man's  been  good  to 
you  ;  but  the  case  is  proved,  and  you  ought  to 
vote  with  the  rest  of  us." 

"  It  ain't  proved,"  said  Eli.  "  The  judge  said 
that  if  any  man  had  a  reasonable  doubt,  he  ought 
to  hold  out.  Now,  I  ain't  convinced." 

"  Well,  that's  easy  said,"  replied  Mr.  Eldridge, 
a  little  hotly,  and  he  arose,  and  left  him. 

The  jurymen  broke  up  into  little  knots,  tilted 
their  chairs  back,  and  settled  into  the  easiest  posi- 
tions that  their  cramped  quarters  allowed.  Most 
of  them  lit  their  pipes  ;  the  captain,  and  one  or 
two  whom  he  honored,  smoked  fragrant  cigars, 
and  the  room  was  soon  filled  with  a  dense  cloud. 

Eli  sat  alone  by  the  window. 

"  Sometimes  sell  two  at  one  house,"  said  a  lank 
book-agent,  arousing  himself  from  a  reverie  ; 
"  once  sold  three." 

"  I  think  the  Early  Rose  is  about  as  profitable  as 
any,"  said  a  little  farmer,  with  a  large  circular 
beard.  "  I  used  to  favor  Jacobs's  Seedling,  but 
they  haven't  done  so  well  with  me  of  late  years." 

"Sometimes,"  said  the  book-agent,  picking  his 
teeth  with  a  quill,  "  you'll  go  to  a  house,  and 
they'll  say  they  can't  be  induced  to  buy  a  book  of 


82  ELI. 

any  kind,  historical,  fictitious,  or  religious  ;  but 
you  just  keep  on  talking,  and  show  the  pictures — 
'  Grant  in  Boyhood,'  '  Grant  a  Tanner,'  '  Grant  at 
Head-quarters/  '  Grant  in  the  White  House/ 
'  Grant  before  Queen  Victoria,'  and  they  warm  up, 
I  tell  you,  and  not  infrequently  buy." 

"Do  you  sell  de  'Illustrated  Bible,'"  asked 
Washington,  "  wid  de  Hypocrypha  ?" 

"  No  ;  I  have  a  more  popular  treatise — the 
'  Illustrated  History  of  the  Bible.'  Greater 
variety.  Brings  in  the  surrounding  nations,  in 
costume.  Cloth,  three  dollars  ;  sheep,  three-fifty  ; 
half  calf,  five-seventy-five,  full  morocco,  gilt  edges, 
seven-fifty.  Six  hundred  and  seven  illustrations 
on  wood  and  steel.  Three  different  engravings  of 
Abraham  alone.  Four  of  Noah — '  Noah  before  the 
Flood,'  '  Noah  Building  the  Ark,'  '  Noah  Wel- 
coming the  Dove,'  '  Noah  on  Ararat.'  Steel  en- 
graving of  Ezekiel's  Wheel,  explaining  prophecy. 
Jonah  under  the  gourd,  Nineveh  in  the  distance." 

Mr.  Eldridge  and  Captain  Thomas  had  drifted 
into  a  discussion  of  harbors,  and  the  captain  had 
drawn  his  chair  up  to  the  table,  and,  with  a  cigar 
in  his  mouth,  was  explaining  an  ingeniously  con- 
structed foreign  harbor.  He  was  making  a  rough 
sketch,  with  a  pen. 

"  Here  is  north,"  he  said  ;  "  here  is  the  coast- 
line ;  here  are  the  flats  ;  here  are  the  sluice-gates  ; 
they  store  the  water  here,  in " 

Some  of  the  younger  men  had  their  heads  to- 
gether, in  a  corner,  about  the  tin-peddler,  who  was 


EU.  83 

telling  stories  of  people  he  had  met  in  his  journeys, 
which  brought  out  repeated  bursts  of  laughter. 

In  the  corner  farthest  from  Eli,  a  delicate-looking 
man  began  to  tell  the  butcher  about  Eli's  wife. 

'  Twelve  years  ago  this  fall,"  he  said,  "  I  taught 
district-school  in  the  parish  where  she  lived.  She 
was  about  fourteen  then.  Her  father  was  a  poor 
farmer,  without  any  faculty.  Her  mother  was 
dead,  and  she  kept  house.  I  stayed  there  one  week, 
boarding  'round." 

"  Prob'ly  didn't  git  not  much  of  any  fresh  meat 
that  week/'  suggested  the  butcher. 

"  She  never  said  much,  but  it  used  to  divert  me 
to  see  her  order  around  her  big  brothers,  just  as 
if  she  was  their  mother.  She  and  I  got  to  be  great 
friends  ;  but  she  was  a  queer  piece.  One  day  at 
school,  the  girls  in  her  row  were  communicating, 
and  annoying  me,  while  the  third  class  was  reciting 
in  '  First  Steps  in  Numbers,'  and  I  was  so  incensed 
that  I  called  Lizzie  — that's  her  name — right  out, 
and  had  her  stand  up  for  twenty  minutes.  She 
was  a  shy  little  thing,  and  set  great  store  by  per- 
fect marks.  I  saw  that  she  was  troubled  a  good 
deal,  to  have  all  of  them  looking  and  laughing  at 
her.  But  she  stood  there,  with  her  hands  folded 
behind  her,  and  not  a  smile  or  a  word." 

"  Look  out  for  a  sullen  cow,"  said  the  butcher. 

"  I  felt  afraid  I  had  been  too  hasty  with  her,  and 
I  was  rather  sorry  I  had  been  so  decided — although, 
to  be  sure,  she  didn't  pretend  to  deny  that  she  had 
been  communicating." 


84  ELL 

"  Of  course,"  said  the  butcher  :  "  no  use  lyin' 
when  you're  caught  in  the  act." 

"  Well,  after  school,  she  stayed  at  her  desk,  fixing 
her  dinner-pail,  and  putting  her  books  in  a  strap, 
and  all  that,  till  all  the  rest  had  gone,  and  then 
she  came  up  to  my  desk,  where  I  was  correcting 
compositions." 

"  Now  for  music  !"  said  the  butcher. 

"  She  had  been  crying  a  little.  Well,  she  looked 
straight  in  my  face,  and  said  she,  '  Mr.  Pollard,  I 
just  wanted  to  say  to  you  that  I  wasn't  doing  any- 
thing at  all  when  you  called  me  up  ; '  and  off  she 
went.  Now,  that  was  just  like  her — too  proud  to 
say  a  word  before  the  school." 

But  here  his  listener's  attention  was  diverted 
by  the  voice  of  the  book-agent  : 

'  The  very  best  Bible  for  teachers,  of  course,  is 
the  limp-cover,  protected  edges,  full  Levant 
morocco,  Oxford,  silk-sewed,  kid-lined,  Bishop's 
Divinity  Circuit,  with  concordance,  maps  of  the 
Holy  Land,  weights,  measures,  and  money-tables 
of  the  Jews.  Nothing  like  having  a  really — 

"And  so,"  said  the  captain,  moving  back  his 
chair,  "  they  let  on  the  whole  head  of  water,  and 
scour  out  the  channel  to  a  T." 

And  then  he  rapped  upon  the  table. 

"  Gentlemen,"  he  said,  "  please  draw  your 
chairs  up,  and  let  us  take  another  ballot." 

The  count  resulted  as  before.  The  foreman 
muttered  something  which  had  a  scriptural  sound. 

In  a  few  moments,  he  drew  Mr.  Eldridge  and  two 


ELL  85 

others  aside.  "  Gentlemen,"  he  said  to  them,  "  I 
shall  quietly  divide  the  jury  into  watches,  under 
your  charge  :  ten  can  sleep,  while  one  wakes  to 
keep  Mr.  Smith  discussing  the  question.  I  don't 
propose  to  have  the  night  wasted." 

And,  by  one  man  or  another,  Eli  was  kept 
awake. 

"  I  DON'T  see,"  said  the  book-agent,  "  why  you 
should  feel  obliged  to  stick  it  out  any  longer.  Of 
course,  you  are  under  obligations.  But  you've 
done  more  than  enough  already,  so  as  that  he  can't 
complain  of  you,  and  if  you  give  in  now,  every- 
body'll  give  you  credit  for  trying  to  save  your 
friend,  on  the  one  hand,  and,  on  the  other  hand, 
for  giving  in  to  the  evidence.  So  you'll  get  credit 
both  ways." 

An  hour  later,  the  tin-peddler  came  on  duty. 
He  had  not  followed  closely  the  story  about  John 
Wood's  loan,  and  had  got  it  a  little  awry. 

"  Now,  how  foolish  you  be,"  he  said,  in  a  con- 
fidential tone.  "  Can't  you  see  that  if  you  cave  in 
now,  after  stan'n'  out  nine  hours" — and  he  looked 
at  a  silver  watch  with  a  brass  chain,  and  stroked 
his  goatee  —  "  nine  hours  and  twenty-seven 
minutes — that  you've  made  jest  rumpus  enough 
so  as't  he  won't  dare  to  foreclose  on  you,  for  fear 
they'll  say  you  went  back  on  a  trade.  On  t'other 
hand,  if  you  hold  clear  out,  he'll  turn  you  out-o'- 
doors  to-morrow,  for  a  blind,  so  's  to  look  as  if 
there  wa'n't  no  trade  between  you.  Once  he  gits 


86  ELL 

off,  he  won't  know  Joseph,  you  bet  !  That's  what 
I'd  do,"  he  added,  with  a  sly  laugh.  ;'  Take  your 
uncle's  advice." 

"  The  only  trouble  with  that,"  said  Eli,  shortly, 
"  is  that  I  don't  owe  him  anything." 

"  Oh,"  said  the  peddler  ;  "  that  makes  a  differ- 
ence. I  understood  you  did." 

Three  o'clock  came,  and  brought  Mr.  Eldridge. 
He  found  Eli  worn  out  with  excitement. 

"  Now  I  don't  judge  you  the  way  the  others 
do,"  said  Mr.  Eldridge,  in  a  low  tone,  with  his 
hand  on  Eli's  knee.  "  I  know,  as  I  told  you,  just 
the  way  you  feel.  But  we  can't  help  such  things. 
Suppose,  now,  that  I  had  kept  dark,  and  allowed 
to  the  owners  that  that  man  was  always  sober,  and 
I  had  heard,  six  months  after,  of  thirty  or  forty 
men  going  to  the  bottom  because  the  captain  was 
a  little  off  his  base  ;  and  then  to  think  of  their 
wives  and  children  at  home.  We  have  to  do  some 
hard  things  ;  but  I  say,  do  the  square  thing,  and 
let  her  slide." 

"  But  I  can't  believe  he's  guilty,"  said  Eli. 

"  But  don't  you  allow,"  said  Mr.  Eldridge, 
"  that  eleven  men  are  more  sure  to  hit  it  right  than 
one  man  ?" 

;<  Yes,"  said  Eli,  reluctantly,  "  as  a  general 
thing." 

"  Well,  there's  always  got  to  be  some  give  to  a 
jury,  just  as  in  everything  else,  and  you  ought  to 
lay  right  down  on  the  rest  of  us.  It  isn't  as  if  we 
were  at  all  squirmish.  Now,  you  know  that  if  you 
hold  out,  he'll  be  tried  again." 


ELI.  87 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  so." 

"  Got  to  be — no  other  way,"  said  Mr.  Eldridge. 
"  Now,  the  next  time,  there  won't  be  anybody  like 
you  to  stand  out,  and  the  judge'll  know  of  this 
scrape,  and  he'll  just  sock  it  to  him." 

Eli  turned  uneasily  in  his  chair. 

"  And  then  it  won't  be  understood  in  your  place, 
and  folks'll  turn  against  you  every  way,  and, 
what's  worse,  let  you  alone." 

"  I  can  stand  it,"  said  Eli,  angrily.  "  Let  'em 
do  as  they  like.  They  can't  kill  me." 

"  They  can  kill  your  wife  and  break  down  your 
children,"  said  Mr.  Eldridge.  "Women  and 
children  can't  stand  it.  Now  there's  that  man 
they  were  speaking  of  ;  he  lived  down  my  way. 
He  sued  a  poor,  shiftless  fellow  that  had  come 
from  Pennsylvania  to  his  daughter's  funeral,  and 
had  him  arrested  and  taken  off,  crying,  just  before 
the  funeral  begun — after  they'd  even  set  the 
flowers  on  the  coffin  ;  and  nobody'd  speak  to  him 
after  that — they  just  let  him  alone  ;  and  after  a 
while  his  wife  took  sick  of  it — she  was  a  nice, 
kindly  woman — and  she  had  sort  of  hysterics,  and, 
finally,  he  moved  off  West.  And  'twasn't  long 
before  the  woman  died.  Now,  you  can't  under- 
take to  do  different  from  everybody  else." 

"  Well,"  said  Eli  ;  "  I  know  I  wish  it  was  done 
with." 

Mr.  Eldridge  stretched  his  arms  and  yawned. 
Then  he  began  to  walk  up  and  down,  and  hum, 
out  of  tune.  Then  he  stopped  at  Captain  Thomas's 
chair. 


88  ELL 

"  Suppose  we  try  a  ballot,"  he  said.  "  He 
seems  to  give  a  little." 

In  a  moment  the  foreman  rapped. 

"  It  is  time  we  were  taking  another  ballot,  gen- 
tlemen," he  said. 

The  sleepers  rose,  grumbling,  from  uneasy 
dreams. 

"  I  will  write  '  guilty'  on  twelve  ballots,"  said 
the  foreman,  "  and  if  any  one  desires  to  write  in 
'  not,'  of  course  he  can." 

When  the  hat  came  to  Eli,  he  took  one  of  the  bal- 
lots and  held  it  in  his  hand  a  moment  ;  and  then 
he  laid  it  on  the  table.  There  was  a  general  mur- 
mur. The  picture  which  Mr.  Eldridge  had  drawn 
loomed  up  before  him.  But  with  a  hasty  hand  he 
wrote  in  "  not,"  dropped  in  the  ballot,  and  going 
back  to  his  chair  by  the  window,  sat  down. 

There  was  a  cold  wave  of  silence. 

Then  Eli  suddenly  walked  up  to  the  foreman 
and  faced  him. 

"  Now,"  he  said,  "  we'll  stop.  The  very  next 
turn  breaks  ground.  If  you,  or  any  other  man 
that  you  set  on,  tries  to  talk  to  me  when  I  don't 
want  to  hear,  to  worry  me  to  death — look  out  !" 

How  the  long  hours  wore  on  !  How  easy,  some- 
times, to  resist  an  open  pressure,  and  how  hard, 
with  the  resistance  gone,  to  fight,  as  one  that 
beats  the  air  !  How  the  prospect  of  a  whole  hos- 
tile town  loomed  up,  in  a  mirage,  before  Eli  ! 
And  then  the  picture  rose  before  him  of  a  long, 
stately  bark,  now  building,  whose  owner  had  asked 


ELI.  89 

him  yesterday  to  be  first  mate.  And  if  his  wife 
were  only  well,  and  he  were  only  free  from  this 
night's  trouble,  how  soon,  upon  the  long,  green 
waves,  he  could  begin  to  redeem  his  little  home  ! 

And  then  came  Mr.  Eldridge,  kind  and  friendly, 
to  have  another  little  chat. 

MORNING  came,  cold  and  drizzly.  An  officer 
knocked  at  the  door,  and  called  out,  "  Breakfast." 
And,  in  a  moment,  unwashed,  and  all  uncombed, 
except  the  tin-peddler,  who  always  carried  a  beard- 
comb  in  his  pocket,  they  were  marched  across  the 
street  to  the  hotel. 

There  were  a  number  of  men  on  the  piazza  wait- 
ing to  see  them  —  jurymen,  witnesses,  and  the 
accused  himself,  for  he  was  on  bail.  He  had  seen 
the  procession  the  night  before,  and,  like  the 
others,  had  read  its  meaning. 

"  Eli  knows  I  wouldn't  do  it,"  he  had  said  to 
himself,  "  and  he's  going  to  hang  out,  sure." 

The  jury  began  to  turn  from  the  court-house 
door.  Everybody  looked.  A  file  of  two  men, 
another  file,  another,  another  ;  would  there  come 
three  men,  and  then  one  ?  No  ;  Eli  no  longer 
walked  alone. 

Everybody  looked  at  Wood  ;  he  turned  sharply 
away. 

But  this  time  the  order  of  march  in  fact  showed 
nothing,  one  way  or  the  other.  It  only  meant  that 
the  judge,  who  had  happened  to  see  the  jury  the 
night  before  returning  from  their  supper,  had  sent 


90  ELI. 

for  the  high  sheriff  in  some  temper — for  judges  are 
human — and  had  vigorously  intimated  that  if  that 
statesman  did  not  look  after  his  fool  of  a  deputy, 
who  let  a  jury  parade  secrets  to  the  public  view, 
he  would ! 

THE  jury  were  in  their  room  again.  At  nine 
o'clock  came  a  rap,  and  a  summons  from  the  court. 

The  prosecuting  attorney  was  speaking  with  the 
judge  when  they  went  in.  In  a  moment  he  took 
his  seat. 

"John  Wood  !"  called  out  the  clerk,  and  the 
defendant  arose.  His  attorney  was  not  there. 

"Mr.  Foreman!"  said  the  judge,  rising.  The 
jury  arose.  The  silence  of  the  crowded  court-room 
was  intense. 

"  Before  the  clerk  asks  you  for  a  verdict,  gentle- 
men," said  the  judge,  "  I  have  something  of  the 
first  importance  to  say  to  you,  which  has  but  this 
moment  come  to  my  knowledge." 

Eli  changed  color,  and  the  whole  court-room 
looked  at  him. 

"  There  were  some  most  singular  rumors,  after 
the  case  was  given  to  you,  gentlemen,  to  the  effect 
that  there  had  been  in  this  cause  a  criminal  abuse 
of  justice.  It  is  painful  to  suspect,  and  shocking  to 
know,  that  courts  and  juries  are  liable  ever  to 
suffer  by  such  unprincipled  practices.  After  ten 
years  upon  the  bench,  I  never  witness  a  conviction 
of  crime  without  pain  ;  but  that  pain  is  light,  com- 
pared with  the  distress  of  knowing  of  a  wilful  per- 


ELL  91 

version  of  justice.  It  is  a  relief  to  me  to  be  able 
to  say  to  you  that  such  instances  are,  in  my  judg- 
ment, exceedingly  rare,  and — so  keen  is  the  awful 
searching  power  of  truth — are  almost  invariably 
discovered." 

The  foreman  touched  his  neighbor  with  his 
elbow.  Eli  folded  his  arms. 

"  As  I  said,"  continued  the  judge,  "  there  were 
most  singular  rumors.  During  the  evening  and 
the  night,  rumor,  as  is  often  the  case,  led  to 
evidence,  and  evidence  has  led  to  confession  and 
to  certainty.  And  the  district  attorney  now  de- 
sires me  to  say  to  you  that  the  chief  officer  of  the 
bank — who  held  the  second  key  to  the  safe — is  now 
under  arrest  for  a  heavy  defalcation,  which  a  sham 
robbery  was  to  conceal,  and  that  you  may  find  the 
prisoner  at  the  bar — not  guilty.  I  congratulate 
you,  gentlemen,  that  you  had  not  rendered  an 
adverse  verdict." 

"  Your  Honor  !"  said  Eli  ;  and  he  cleared  his 
throat  ;  "  I  desire  it  to  be  known  that,  even  as  the 
case  stood  last  night,  this  jury  had  not  agreed  to 
convict,  and  never  would  have  !" 

There  was  a  hush,  while  a  loud  scratching  pen 
indorsed  the  record  of  acquittal.  Then  Wood 
walked  down  to  the  jury-box  and  took  Eli's  hand. 

"Just  what  I  told  my  wife  all  through,"  he 
said.  "  1  knew  you'd  hang  out  !" 

ELI'S  jury  was  excused  for  the  rest  of  the  day, 
and  by  noon  he  was  in  his  own  village,  relieved, 


92  ELI. 

too,  of  his  most  pressing  burden  :  for  George 
Cahoon  had  met  him  on  the  road,  and  told  him 
that  he  was  not  going  to  the  West,  after  all,  for  the 
present,  and  should  not  need  his  money.  But,  as 
he  turned  the  bend  of  the  road  and  neared  his 
house,  he  felt  a  rising  fear  that  some  disturbing 
rumor  might  have  reached  his  wife  about  his  action 
on  the  jury.  And,  to  his  distress  and  amazement, 
there  she  was,  sitting  in  a  chair  at  the  door. 

"  Lizzie  !"  he  said,  "  what  does  this  mean  ? 
Are  you  crazy  ?" 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  it  means,"  she  said,  as  she 
stood  up  with  a  little  smile  and  clasped  her  hands 
behind  her.  "  This  morning,  it  got  around  and 
came  to  me  that  you  was  standing  out  all  alone  for 
John  Wood,  and  that  the  talk  was  that  they'd  be 
down  on  you,  and  drive  you  out  of  town,  and  that 
everybody  pitied  me — pitied  me  !  And  when  I  heard 
that,  I  thought  I'd  see  !  And  my  strength  seemed 
to  come  all  back,  and  I  got  right  up,  and  dressed 
myself.  And  what's  more,  I'm  going  to  get  well 
now  !" 

And  she  did. 


YOUNG  STRONG  OF    'THE  CLARION." 

BY  MiLigENT  WASHBURN  SHINN. 


IF  you  had  asked  any  resident  of  Green's  Ferry 
some  eight  years  ago — say,  in  '76 — who  were 
the  leading  men  of  his  town,  he  would  doubtless 
have  begun  : 

"  Well,  there's  Judge  Garvey,  of  course.  Then 
there's  Uncle  Billy  Green,  who  built  the  first 
shanty  there  in  '49,  and  young  Strong  of  '  The 
Clarion  ' — " 

However  he  might  continue  his  enumeration,  it 
would  certainly  have  been  as  above  for  the  first 
three  names.  One  you  would  have  recognized,  if 
you  had  been  following  State  politics  closely  for 
some  years  ;  for  Judge  Garvey  was  very  regularly 
chosen  State  senator  in  his  district,  and  had  held 
the  barren  honor  of  presidential  elector  the  last 
time  his  party  carried  the  State.  In  '76,  some  of 
the  papers  were  urging  his  nomination  for  Con- 

«**  Overland  Monthly \  September,  1884. 


94          YOUNG   STRONG   OF  "THE   CLARION." 

gress,  and  politicians  thought  his  chance  of  such  a 
nomination  increasing.  It  has  not  turned  out  so  ; 
his  name  has  quite  dropped  out  of  the  papers,  and 
it  is  said  he  does  not  certainly  control  his  own 
county  now  ;  but  at  that  time  he  was  the  most 
potent  political  influence  in  three  counties.  What 
he  influenced  them  to,  I  never  clearly  understood, 
for  I  cannot  recall  that  I  ever  heard  his  name  men- 
tioned in  connection  with  any  measure  or  opinion. 
A  file  of  "  The  Clarion"  during  the  four  years 
that  young  Strong  was  editor  would  doubtless 
throw  light  on  the  matter.  "  The  Clarion"  was  at 
this  time  a  sort  of  voice  crying  in  the  wilderness 
about  Reform,  which  was  a  very  new  idea,  in- 
deed, to  its  readers.  Garvey  did  not  like  the 
paper,  and  young  Strong  disliked  Garvey  very 
much  ;  but  the  two  men  had  kept  on  fairly  good 
terms — not  so  rigid  good  terms,  of  course,  as  to 
forbid  their  expressing  to  third  parties  the  frankest 
contempt  for  each  other.  The  Judge  had  here  the 
advantage,  for  Strong  despised  him  indignantly, 
as  a  knave,  while  he  despised  Strong — or  said  he 
did — pityingly,  as  a  fool.  He  must,  however, 
have  at  bottom  honored  the  young  fellow  with 
some  serious  antipathy  ;  for  it  was  after  all  no 
laughing  matter  that  a  boy  of  twenty-five  should 
come  into  "  his  Gaul,  which  he  had  conquered  by 
arms,"  and  filch  away  his  home  paper  from  under 
his  very  eyes.  Moreover,  though  people  read  the 
editorials,  laughed,  and  voted  with  the  Judge  just 
the  same — they  still  did  read  them.  However, 


YOUNG   STRONG   OF  ''THE   CLARION."         95 

Judge  Garvey  certainly  was  more  civil  to  Strong 
than  Strong  was  to  him. 

As  for  Uncle  Billy  Green,  his  rank  was  due  not 
only  to  his  connection  with  the  "  first  shanty"  (a 
house  of  entertainment  at  the  point  where  a  trail 
turned  from  the  river  toward  the  mines),  but  to  his 
having  remained  steadily  on  the  .spot  ever  since, 
putting  up  a  larger  building  at  intervals  as  the  set- 
tlement gathered  around  him,  until  now  he  was 
proprietor  of  the  American  Eagle  Hotel,  a  house  of 
goodly  dimensions  and  generous  equipment — bill- 
iard-room, bowling  alley,  shooting-gallery.  Nor 
did  Uncle  Billy  Green  own  and  conduct  this  house 
in  a  purely  business  spirit  ;  a  more  modest  one 
would  have  been  more  profitable  ;  he  liked  to  "  do 
that  much  for  the  town."  A  man  by  the  name  of 
Gulliver  had  established  the  old  rope-ferry,  before 
the  day  of  bridges,  but  it  was  naturally  called 
Green's  Ferry,  being  a  ferry  at  Green's  place.  He 
had  been  of  an  undoubted  valor  in  the  Indian 
fights  of  early  days,  was  full  of  reminiscences,  had 
no  personal  objections  to  anybody  or  anything, 
and  had  long  given  over  to  Judge  Garvey  the 
trouble  of  forming  his  opinions. 

Judge  Garvey  and  young  Strong  were  pretty 
sure  to  be  put  upon  such  boards  or  committees  as 
the  local  affairs  of  the  small  town  demanded  ;  and 
in  local  matters  they  proved  to  pull  together  fairly 
well,  however  at  odds  they  were  politically.  But 
in  the  end  it  was  not  over  politics,  but  over  the 
district  school,  that  they  fell  out  squarely.  They 


g6          YOUNG   STRONG  OF  "THE    CLARION." 

were  both  trustees,  and  as  Green  was  the  third, 
the  board  seemed  in  little  danger  from  any  too 
radical  reforming  tendencies  young  Strong  might 
be  guilty  of,  and  the  Judge  had  no  thought  of 
danger  as  he  walked  down  to  "  The  Clarion" 
office,  a  breathless  September  afternoon,  a  couple 
of  days  before  the  school  should  open. 

He  found  young  Strong  in  his  editorial  room. 
This  was  a  corner  of  the  printing-office,  fenced  off 
by  a  great  screen  pasted  over  with  old  exchanges. 
Behind  this,  Strong  sat  at  his  table,  correcting 
proof  energetically.  It  was  evident  that  he  took 
the  editing  of  this  little  four-page  weekly  rather 
seriously — but,  then,  a  man  must  needs  be  busi- 
ness-like to  produce  even  four  pages  weekly  with 
one  assistant,  and  Strong  had  to  economize  time 
enough  from  strictly  editorial  functions  to  do  a 
goodly  share  of  type-setting  and  the  rest  of  the 
mechanics  of  the  office. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  for  interrupting  you,  Mr. 
Strong,"  said  the  Judge.  "  I  perceive  you  are 
arduously  occupied.  But  it  becomes  necessary  to 
confer  with  you  with  regard  to  the  school-teacher." 

The  Judge  was  a  tall  and  vigorously  built  man — • 
a  little  red-faced,  but  good-looking,  if  one  did  not 
insist  on  too  fine  a  definiteness  of  outline.  He 
spoke  habitually  with  a  certain  inflation  of  man- 
ner, and  tried  to  form  himself  upon  a  Southern 
type  that  was  pretty  abundant  in  our  politics  some 
years  earlier.  He  was,  however,  a  native  of  rural 
New  York,  early  transplanted  to  California. 


YOUNG   STRONG   OF  "THE    CLARION:'         97 

Strong  turned  in  his  chair,  and  sitting  sidewise, 
rested  his  elbow  on  the  proof-sheets,  holding  the 
pencil  still  in  his  fingers. 

"  Well  ?"  he  said.  "  I  thought  everything  was 
settled." 

"  Assuredly."  Judge  Garvey  rested  his  folded 
arms  upon  the  pile  of  books  stacked  at  the  rear  of 
the  table,  and  leaned  over  them  in  a  friendly  way. 
"  Mr.  Coakley  is  to  arrive  Sunday  evening,  and 
will  begin  the  term  on  Monday  morning,  to  the 
great  satisfaction,  I  can  guarantee,  of  all  con- 
cerned. A  slight  and  merely  temporary  embar- 
rassment has  arisen,  with  respect  to  which  a  few 
words  will  make  it  all  right.  In  point  of  fact,  the 
young  woman  with  whom  we  previously  held  cor- 
respondence— who,  you  will  remember,  broke  her 
engagement  with  us  to  take  a  more  advantageous 
position — is  here." 

The  Judge  stopped  for  question  or  comment,  but 
as  Strong  waited  for  explanation,  he  went  on  : 

"  She  has,  it  appears,  failed  after  all  to  secure 
that,  and  come  here  expecting  to  fall  back  upon 
our  school,  not  having  heard  that  it  was  engaged." 

"  Well,  that's  unfortunate  for  her,"  said  Strong, 
"  but  you  can't  ship  Coakley  now." 

"  Your  views  coincide  exactly  with  my  own,  my 
dear  sir."  The  Judge  straightened  up  with  some 
relief.  "  I  have  only  to  ask,  then,  for  a  note  to 
the  lady  to  that  effect,  that  my  own  explanation 
already  given  may  be  corroborated." 

Strong  began  to  look  alert  and  suspicious  at  this. 


98          YOUNG   STRONG   OF  "THE   CLARION." 

"  Views  coincide  ?"  he  said.  "  What  two  views 
could  there  be  ?  What  does  she  say  brought  her 
here?" 

"  She's  got  an  idea  that  she's  got  first  claim  on 
the  place,"  said  the  Judge,  plumping  suddenly 
into  colloquial  diction.  He  had  a  trick  of  doing 
so  when  he  got  down  to  business.  It  would  have 
had  something  the  effect  of  candid  confession, 
produced  by  a  maiden's  plain-hair  days  alternated 
with  her  waved-hair  days,  had  not  the  grandilo- 
quence of  tone  and  manner  become  so  far  second 
nature  that  it  ran  through  both  his  dialects,  and 
lessened  the  contrast.  "  You  can't  always  make  a 
woman  see  sense." 

Strong  looked  suspiciously  at  him  a  few  seconds. 
"  Well,  I'll  go  see  her  this  evening,"  he  said. 
"  Where's  she  staying  ?" 

'  That  is  a  totally  superfluous  tax  on  your  time, 
my  dear  Strong,"  said  the  Judge,  leaning  persua- 
sively across  the  books  again.  "  I  have  here  a  mere 
formal  line,  stating  that  Coakley  is  the  regularly 
engaged  teacher  of  the  school,  and  will  begin  next 
Monday  ;  your  signature  to  it — Green's  and  mine 
are  already  there — will  be  all  that  is  necessary." 
He  pushed  pen  and  ink  toward  Strong  with  his  ex- 
aggerated air  of  courtesy. 

"  Oh,  I'm  not  going  to  sign  things  that  way, 
you  know.  I'll  go  see  her."  He  turned  and  drew 
his  proof-sheets  to  him  with  an  air  of  dismissal. 

The  Judge  stood  up  very  straight,  expanded  his 
chest,  and  folded  his  arms  according  to  his  con- 


YOUNG  STRONG   OF  "THE    CLARION."         99 

ception  of  the  Virginian  manner.  "  Am  I  to  un- 
derstand, sir,  that  you  question  my  veracity  ?" 

"  I  don't  question  anything,"  said  the  young 
man,  impatiently.  "  I'll  know  what  I'm  talking 
about  when  I've  seen  her." 

"  Permit  me  to  suggest,  sir" — the  Judge  was 
approaching  his  platform  manner — "  permit  me 
to  suggest,  sir,  that  Mr.  Green  and  myself  consti- 
tute a  majority  of  the  board,  and  Mr.  Green,  sir — 
Uncle  Billy  Green — has  confidence  in  my  honor, 
and  will  sustain  my  action,  whatever  line  you  may 
be  persuaded  to  adopt." 

"  Oh,  as  to  that,"  said  Strong,  exaggerating  his 
crispness  of  manner  in  protest  against  the  Judge's 
staginess,  "I'm  clerk  of  the  board,  and  you  can't 
hold  a  legal  meeting  nor  pay  a  salary  without  me. 
What's  the  reason  you  don't  want  me  to  see  her  ?" 

Judge  Garvey  unfolded  his  arms,  fell  back  a 
step,  and  dropped  easily  into  the  sonorous  decla- 
mation that  made  the  stalwart  Judge  no  inconspic- 
uous figure  on  the  floor  of  the  Legislature.  The 
newspapers,  of  course,  were  responsible  for  his 
language — as  for  the  rest  of  his  education  ;  but 
such  as  it  was,  he  used  it  fluently,  and  the  decla- 
matory manner  was,  to  his  constituency,  quite  an 
essential  of  eloquence — the  prime  difference,  in 
fact,  between  oratory  and  plain  talking. 

;<  You  cast  aspersions  upon  my  honor,  sir. 
Through  me  you  insult  the  people  of  Green's 
Ferry — of  this  county — of  this  district — the  en- 
lightened and  honorable  constituency  who  it  is  my 


ioo       YOUNG   STRONG   OF  "THE    CLARION." 

proud  honor  to  represent.  I  sco-r-n  to  answer 
your  insinuations,  sir.  They  will  be  hurled  back 
upon  yourself  by  the  united  voice  and  righteous 
indignation  of  my  justly  aroused  fellow-townsmen, 
by  the  voters  of  this  noble  district — I  may  say,  by 
the  whole  State  of  California — to  which  I  am  not 
unknown,  sir." 

Half-a-dozen  of  the  justly  aroused  fellow-towns- 
men were  straggling  in  from  the  street,  for  in 
Green's  Ferry  a  sprinkling  of  the  citizens  spend 
the  warm  afternoons  sitting  in  absolute  tranquillity 
on  boxes  and  barrels  here  and  there,  under  the 
awnings  of  the  several  business  blocks  ;  and  the 
knowledge  that  a  row  was  at  last  on  between  Judge 
Garvey  and  young  Strong  reached  them  at  the 
first  peal.  The  Judge,  alive  to  the  increase  of  his 
audience,  raised  his  voice  a  shade,  and  went  on 
with  a  curious  mixture  of  complacency  and  genu- 
ine wrath. 

"Is  it  lack  of  confidence  that  has  sent  me  to 
represent  my  honorable  constituency  in  the  legisla- 
tive halls  of  California,  Mr.  Strong?  Have  I  re- 
ceived that  proud  token  of  esteem  only  to  be  in- 
sulted by  one  whose  obscurity  is  his  only  shield  ; 
who,  with  unknown  record,  with  no  recommenda- 
tion save  his  own  overwhelming  self-esteem,  comes 
among  us  to  sow  dissent  in  peaceful  counsels,  and 
draw  scorn  and  contempt  upon  his  own  head  by 
impotent  and  futile  attacks  upon  those  whom  he  is 
powerless  to  harm  ?" 

This  rounded  the  climax  well,  so  the  Judge  only 


YOUNG   STRONG   OF  "THE    CLARION."       101 

added  :  "  The  call  you  propose,  sir,  I  shall  regard 
as  a  direct  insult  to  myself,"  and  strode  dramati- 
cally from  the  room. 

The  papered  screen  went  crashing  to  the  floor 
behind  him.  The  justly  aroused  fellow-townsmen 
looked  after  him,  laughing  but  admiring. 

"  Laid  you  out,  didn't  he,  Strong  ?" 

"  That's  the  way  he  does  it  at  Sacramento.  Oh, 
the  Judge  is  a  real  orator — there's  no  doubt  of 
that." 

''He  don't  have  to  make  his  speech  up  before- 
hand. No,  sir,  right  where  he  is,  any  time  of  day, 
he  just  turns  the  faucet,  and  there  it  comes." 

"  What  was  the  row,  anyway,  Strong  ?" 

"I  don't  know  myself;  something  about  a 
teacher — he  began  to  bluster  all  of  a  sudden." 
Strong  walked  over  to  the  screen,  picked  it  up,  set 
it  straight  along  a  crack  with  intense  precision, 
and  went  back  to  his  seat.  "  Drunk,  isn't  he?  I 
haven't  heard  him  take  the  stump  that  way  since 
election.  He's  always  made  rather  a  point  of  not 
quarrelling  with  me,  too." 

"  Oh,  he's  no  drunker'n  usual,"  answered  with 
candor  a  fellow-townsman.  "  The  Judge  ain't 
really  himself  until  he's  a  little  off.  He  didn't 
blow  so  without  some  reason  ;  don't  you  fool 
yourself — not  if  /know  the  man." 

"  Well,  if  he's  got  any  game  he  must  have  come 
to  his  last  chance  in  it,  to  try  bullying  on  me," 
said  Strong  ;  and  then  another  of  the  group 
asked  : 


102        YOUNG   STRONG   OF  "THE    CLARION" 

"  What  row  could  there  be  about  a  teacher, 
Strong  ?  Thought  you'd  given  him  his  man." 

The  pencil  rolled  from  the  edge  of  the  table 
across  the  floor  at  Strong's  movement  of  atten- 
tion. "  Coakley  ? — what  of  him  ?" 

The  man  began  to  laugh,  and  one  or  two  others 
joined  in.  One  of  them  said  a  little  offensively  : 
"  Pretty  good  on  you,  youngster  !  You  took  too 
big  a  contract  for  your  age  when  you  undertook  to 
keep  up  with  Judge  Garvey.  He'll  give  you  odds 
and  take  you  in,  every  time." 

Strong  reddened  a  little,  but  waited  to  be  an- 
swered with  very  fair  composure. 

"Didn't  you  really  know,  Strong?  The  Judge 
scored  one  on  you  that  time,  then.  Why,  he's 
been  Garvey's  man  in  Sierra  Township  one  or  two 
elections  now.  Used  to  be  a  Millerite  preacher, 
before  your  day,  but  he  broke  down  at  that.  Good 
hand  in  county  politics,  but  he's  always  completely 
out  of  business  between  times.  Why  you  remem- 
ber him,  Strong — he  was  round  with  the  Judge 
election  times  —  cross-eyed  fellow,  with  black 
siders." 

"That  fellow?  Why,  he  can't  spell  straight! 
The  way  of  it  was,  Judge  Garvey  told  us  only 
Tuesday  that  the  teacher  we'd  got — first-rate  cer- 
tificates— had  backed  out  ;  and  we  couldn't  put  off 
beginning  school  any  longer,  nor  hear  of  any 
teacher  to  be  had  ;  so  when  he  produced  this  man, 
we  had  really  no  choice.  I  suppose  I  needn't  ask 
where  he  got  his  certificates." 


YOUNG.  STRONG   OF  "THE    CLARION."       103 

"  No — Garvey's  solid  with  this  county  board 
and  superintendent." 

"  Disgraceful  !"  said  Strong  ;  whereat  all 
laughed,  except  one  who  had  lost  a  ranch  a  few 
years  before  during  business  dealings  with  the 
Judge. 

"  Oh,  he's  a  scamp — I  wouldn't  trust  him  out  of 
sight  with  his  baby's  silver  mug,"  said  this  man, 
with  feeling.  The  rest  laughed  again.  In  Green's 
Ferry  a  certain  easy-going  good-heartedness  is  re- 
quired by  the  public  conscience,  rather  than  deca- 
logue virtues.  Garvey  liked  sharp  practice — all 
right  ;  if  you  were  yourself  hurt,  you  would  natu- 
rally begin  to  vote  against  him  ;  otherwise,  it  was 
none  of  your  business,  except  as  successful  rascal- 
ity had  a  claim  on  your  admiration.  Young 
Strong  liked  to  write  furious  reform  editorials — all 
right  ;  if  you  were  the  one  hit,  you  would  swear  at 
Strong  and  stop  your  subscription  until  a  hit  on 
some  one  else  made  you  renew  it  ;  otherwise,  it 
was  none  of  your  business  and  lively  reading. 
They  leaned  against  the  wall  and  desk,  and  began 
with  perfect  good-nature  to  tell  stories  of  the 
Judge.  "  R'member  the  time  he  got  that  Mexican 
ranch  ?  Fellow  thought  it  was  a  bill  of  sale  for 
thirty  acres  he  was  signing,  and  it  was  three  hun- 
dred." 

"  Best  thing  was  when  he  made  old  man  Meeker 
believe  he  was  dying,  and  deed  over  a  good  fifty 
thousand  dollars  in  stock  to  his  daughter — and 
married  the  girl,  sir,  before  the  old  fellow  found 


104        YOUNG   STRONG   OF  "THE    CLARION." 

he  was  good  for  twenty  years  more.  He  made  the 
air  smell  of  brimstone  the  rest  of  his  life  if  you 
mentioned  Garvey  to  him  !  Drowned  in  a  ford  a 
winter  or  two  later,  after  all.  Used  to  live  in  a 
little  shanty  up  Indian  Crick  and  raise  potatoes — 
and  Garvey  sent  him  a  cow — cheekiest  thing  !" 

Strong  turned  sharply  away  from  the  laugh  that 
followed,  and  went  on  with  his  work,  while  they 
slowly  dispersed.  He  worked  on  savagely  with 
brows  drawn  together.  "  It  isn't  so  much  the  ex- 
istence of  scoundrels  like  Garvey  that  gets  me,"  he 
was  saying  to  himself,  "  as  the  way  the  whole 
crowd  of  them  take  him."  He  stopped  to  read 
over  the  words  he  was  correcting — they  were  edi- 
torial : 

"  Was  ever  folly  greater  than  this  of  our  com- 
munity, in  dropping  everything  else  to  run  after 
money.  For  what  do  you  expect  to  do  with  it 
when  you  get  it  ?  Better  eating,  and  drinking, 
and  the  privilege  of  being  toadied  to  by  those  who 
want  to  make  something  out  of  you — what  more 
can  you  get  out  of  money,  if  you  have  never  made 
anything  of  yourself  1  Just  as  a  pig,  if  he  might 
take  his  choice  whether  he  would  be  turned  into  a 
man  or  would  be  moved  into  a  cosier  sty,  with 
more  unbounded  swill,  would  doubtless  choose  the 
sty  !" 

"  My  broom  against  the  ocean,"  he  said  ;  but  he 
went  on  correcting  doggedly. 

And,  not  to  conceal  from  you  what  was  in  reality 
the  most  significant  fact  about  Will  Strong — the 


YOUNG   STRONG  OF  "THE   CLARION."       105 

key  to  about  everything  he  thought  and  did — he 
was  mentally  submitting  this  editorial,  as  he  had 
submitted  every  other  he  had  written,  to  the  test 
of  the  probable  opinion  of  a  young  woman  he  had 
not  seen  nor  heard  from  for  two  years,  but  who 
nevertheless  constituted  to  his  mind  the  chief  mo- 
tive for  existence — if  not  the  chief  and  sufficient 
explanation  of  the  human  race's  having  been  cre- 
ated at  all.  You  must  realize,  before  trying  to  un- 
derstand his  story,  that  Will  Strong  was  really  a 
very  romantic  young  man  indeed,  though  he  pre- 
tended to  Green's  Ferry  that  he  was  not. 

Outside  the  screen,  the  strips  of  sun  through  the 
western  window  and  open  door  lengthened  across 
the  meagre  collection  of  dusty  fonts  of  type,  the 
small  press,  the  piles  of  papers.  The  black-fin- 
gered, red-haired  boy  setting  type  among  them 
reflected  that  it  must  be  nearly  dinner-time,  and 
turned  to  see  how  far  in  the  hot  strips  had  crept — 
turned,  and  stood  staring  ;  for  he  met  squarely  the 
inquiring  look  of  a  pair  of  clear  eyes,  and  became 
aware  of  a  lady  in  the  doorway. 

It  is  probable  that  Jim  had  never  dreamed  in  his 
life  of  any  other  social  distinction  than  that  be- 
tween rich  and  poor,  notorious  and  obscure,  nor 
was  he  a  lad  of  perceptions  ;  yet  he  knew  at  once 
that  this  was  a  very  unusual  sort  of  lady  for 
Green's  Ferry.  If  he  had  been  a"  man  of  the  social 
world  he  would  have  known  that  she  was  a  gentle- 
woman of  notably  high-bred  appearance.  She 
glanced,  not  without  dismay,  about  the  shabby 


lo6        YOUNG   STRONG   OF  "THE   CLARION." 

work-room,  as  if  she  felt  herself  where  she  had  no 
business  to  be.  Nevertheless,  she  came  forward 
frankly,  and  asked  in  the  friendly  way  of  one  whose 
station  needs  no  asserting  : 

"  Mr.  Strong  ? — one  of  the  school-board  ? — Is  he 
here  ?" 

"  Yes'm."  The  boy  made  no  motion,  but  stood 
blankly  staring. 

"  May  I  see  him,  please  ?" 

"  Lady  to  see  you,  Mr.  Strong,"  shouted  Jim, 
standing  still. 

In  the  few  seconds  before  Strong  emerged,  the 
lady  stood  her  ground  in  the  middle  of  the  floor, 
with  some  appearance  of  anxiety.  She  was  cer- 
tainly a  very  noticeable  person,  and  came  nearer  to 
warranting  that  strong  word  "beautiful"  than 
falls  often  to  the  lot  of  woman.  It  was  a  matter  of 
outline  more  than  color,  however,  for  she  had  not 
much  of  that  about  her — brown  hair,  blue-gray 
eyes,  skin  of  a  warm  paleness.  All  this  low  color- 
ing, however,  was  so  perfect  of  its  sort,  that  it  gave 
something  the  effect  of  a  fine  etching — a  rich  dis- 
tinctness attained  by  shades,  not  colors.  Instead 
of  being  outshone  by  more  brilliant-hued  women, 
Miss  Northrop  had  always  had  the  effect  of  making 
them  look  chromo-like.  So,  too,  a  certain  nobility 
and  self-forgetfulness  of  manner  made  the  more 
elaborate  manners  of  others  seem  the  crude  device 
of  inferiority.  It  was  a  good  deal  due  to  her 
eyes  ;  she  had  most  wonderful  eyes,  and  I  doubt  if 
any  man  or  many  women  ever  met  them  in  a  full 


YOUNG  STRONG   OF   "THE    CLARION."       107 

look  without  feeling  a  little  stir  of  pulse — whether 
it  was  in  the  lashes,  or  in  the  sweet  straightfor- 
wardness of  look,  utterly  devoid  of  coquetry,  or  in 
the  depth  of  the  gray,  or  in  what  ;  certain  it  is 
that  no  one  ever  saw  Miss  Northrop  without  talk- 
ing of  her  beautiful  eyes. 

"  A  lady  to  see  him  ?"  The  word  in  Green's 
Ferry  defined  only  the  sex.  Some  one  with  a  no- 
tice of  a  flock  of  sheep  for  sale,  which  she  wanted 
to  get  in  as  a  local  ;  or  with  an  ill-spelled  poem  ; 
or — by  George,  yes — that  school-mistress.  Lucky 
she  had  not  met  Garvey  there — poor  girl  !  Strong 
laid  his  pencil  down,  and  came  out  from  behind 
the  screen  good-naturedly  enough — and  stopped 
short.  What  a  thing  to  happen  to  a  man,  that  he 
should  live  and  move  and  have  his  being  for  a 
dozen  years  in  the  thought  of  one  woman,  should 
count  a  world  worth  living  in  because  she  was 
somewhere- on  it,  and  a  pitiful  human  race  worth 
working  for  because  they  were  her  fellow-creat- 
ures— and  should  come  out  from  behind  his  screen, 
and  see  her  before  his  eyes — on  his  dingy  work- 
room floor — out  of  her  four  thousand  miles'  dis- 
tance ! 

They  had  been  four  years  schoolmates  in  a  New 
England  High  School.  Will  was  a  farmer's  lad, 
from  an  outlying,  rocky  village,  who  worked  for 
his  board  while  he  went  to  school.  He  came  of  an 
unschooled,  hard-working,  God-fearing  yeoman 
race.  Winifred  could  look  up  every  line  of  her 
descent,  through  vista  of  governors,  college-presi- 


lo8        YOUNG   STRONG   OF  ''THE    CLARION." 

dents,  and  ministers,  back  to  Colonial  aristocracy 
and  gentry  beyond  sea.  Her  great-grandfathers 
had  carried  swords  in  Revolutionary  battles,  where 
Will's  had  followed  with  muskets.  Winifred  her- 
self was  one  of  those  flowers  into  which  excellent 
family  trees  break  occasionally — flowers  so  lovely 
that  no  excellence  of  the  tree  seems  enough  to  ac- 
count for  them.  If  she  had  any  core  of  aristo- 
cratic coldness,  it  was  so  overlaid  by  a  sweet  hu- 
maneness, a  frank  generosity  of  impulse,  that  no 
one  would  have  known  it.  If  she  had  been  a  man, 
to  have  a  valet,  she  would  have  been  a  hero  to  him. 
Even  in  the  democracy  of  school,  Will  Strong 
knew  well  enough  the  difference  between  his  shy 
awkwardness  and  her  pleasant  frankness  ;  and 
knew  that  though  he  could  meet  school  require- 
ments about  as  well  as  she,  yet  his  mental  range 
was  crude  and  narrow  beside  hers  ;  and  any  one 
could  see  that  in  the  town  where  he  was  an  un- 
known boy  she  was  an  important  young  lady. 
These  things  would  not  have  counted  for  much 
had  not  some  mediaeval  follower  of  some  exiled 
king  dropped  down  into  the  boy's  temperament 
that  passion  of  self-abasing  loyalty  that  is  rather 
an  anachronism  in  our  democratic  days.  They 
had  been  on  terms  of  friendliness  rather  than 
friendship  in  school,  but  that  was  due  more  to  his 
shyness  than  anything  else..  She  had  really  given 
to  him  more  opportunities  than  to  most  of  her 
schoolmates  ;  she  liked  his  integrity  and  earnest- 
ness. 


YOUNG  STRONG   OF  "  THE    CLARION."       109 

.* 

He  had  looked  to  college  as  the  natural  door  be- 
tween his  world  and  hers  ;  after  four  years  at  New 
Haven  he  might  seek  her  acquaintance  without 
audacity.  To  that  end  he  had  laboriously  accu- 
mulated money,  and  had  even  passed  his  matricu- 
lation, when  his  father's  death  made  him  indispen- 
sable on  the  poor  little  farm.  Since  then  he  had 
doggedly  plodded  alone  through  the  college  cur- 
riculum, but  without  finding  in  it  the  mysterious 
pass-word  that  he  had  expected  into  the  intellect- 
ual aristocracy.  Some  two  years  before,  his 
mother's  death  and  the  growing  up  of  younger 
brothers  had  left  him  free  to  seek  his  fortune  in 
California.  At  twenty-seven  he  had  lost  his  fresh 
look  and  boyish  shyness  ;  he  looked  older  than  he 
was,  but  he  was  really  very  youthful,  and  believed 
in  all  sorts  of  abstractions  beginning  with  capitals. 
His  mental  furniture,  being  obtained  from  books, 
not  people,  was  not  quite  in  the  style  of  the  pres- 
ent decade,  and  he  read  Carlyle  and  Emerson  more 
than  Herbert  Spencer.  His  creed  had,  therefore, 
quite  transcendentalism  enough  to  accommodate 
without  incongruity  his  little  private  deification. 

Once  in  every  year  or  two,  as  opportunity  took 
him  near  her  home,  he  had  called  on  her,  and  had 
multiplied  each  call  mightily  by  thinking  of  it  be- 
fore and  after.  He  had  also  kept  up  a  stupid  cor- 
respondence with  a  schoolmate  who  had  lived  in 
the  same  town  with  her,  for  the  chance  of  her  name 
being  mentioned.  Within  a  couple  of  years,  how- 
ever, she  had  lost  her  father  and  gone  to  relatives 


no        YOUNG   STRONG   OF  "THE    CLARION." 

in  New  York,  so  he  had  lost  exact  knowledge  even 
of  her  whereabouts. 

She  spoke  before  he  had  found  his  voice — with- 
out an  instant's  hesitation,  indeed.  "  Oh,  Will 
Strong  !"  she  cried,  stepping  quickly  toward  him 
and  holding  out  her  hand.  "  I  hoped  it  was  you  !" 

He  took  the  offered  hand,  and  said  to  himself  that 
his  own  was  consecrated  by  the  touch  to  clean 
deeds  forever.  He  would  not  have  known  how  to 
address  her,  but  he  followed  her  leading. 

"  It  is  Winifred  Northrop  !"  he  said.  "  What  is 
it  ?  Can  I  do  something  for  you  ?" 

"  You  are  school-committee  man,  are  you  not  ?" 
Anxiety,  relief,  and  trust  mingled  in  her  voice. 

"  Trustee — yes.  Why,"  he  cried,  "  it  isn't  pos- 
sible ihatyvu  are  the  lady  !" 

She  laughed.     "  I  suppose  the  lady  must  be  I." 

He  did  not  smile.  He  even  lost  color  with 
wrath.  "  Garvey  has  dared  to  play  you  some 
trick  ! — I  did  not  dream — "  he  went  on,  eagerly, 
"  Garvey  kept  the  letters  in  his  hands,  and  bungled 
over  the  name,  so  I  did  not  once  fairly  catch  it." 

He  turned  back  to  his  corner,  and  put  the  re- 
.maining  bit  of  proof  into  his  pocket.  New  heavens 
and  new  earth  had  come  into  existence  since  the 
last  pencil  mark  on  it. 

"  Jim,"  he  said,  "I'm  called  off  on  school-busi- 
ness. You  get  as  much  of  that  set  up  as  you  can 
before  dinner,  and  then  lock  up  ;  and  I'll  come 
down  and  make  the  corrections  in  the  editorials 
before  I  go  to  bed.  Now — Winifred — if  I  may 


YOUNG   STRONG   OF  "THE    CLARION."       Ill 

walk  home  with  you,  we'll  get  to  the  bottom  of 
Garvey's  tricks.  Villain  !" 

The  epithet  was  so  fervent,  and  so  entirely  with- 
out humorous  intent,  that  Miss  Northrop  laughed 
again  as  they  walked  out  into  the  dull,  hot  Sep- 
tember afternoon  sun.  The  board  sidewalk  was 
uneven  and  full  of  projecting  nails  and  splinters, 
and  she  held  her  thin,  blue-gray  dress  prettily 
aside  from  them  ;  Will  noted  the  gesture  with  ad- 
miration as  intense  as  unreasonable.  It  seemed  to 
him  peculiarly  admirable  that  she  should  draw  her 
hat  a  little  forward  to  shade  her  eyes,  and  should 
take  just  the  length  of  step  that  she  did  ;  the  abso- 
lutely right  step  for  a  lady  was  thenceforth  set- 
tled ;  since  then,  he  has  insisted  unreasonably 
upon  a  certain  shade  as  the  only  right  thing  in 
gray,  as  if  he  held  in  his  own  mind  some  positive 
standard  beyond  the  realm  of  variable  taste. 

The  two  or  three  business  blocks — rows  of  slight 
frame-buildings,  more  of  them  saloons  than  would 
seem  possible — were  very  quiet  ;  Green's  Ferry  is 
the  shipping  point  of  a  wide  stock-raising  district, 
and  all  its  activity  centres  about  the  railroad  sta- 
tion at  stated  times  daily.  The  justly  aroused  fel- 
low-townsmen were  all  back  under  the  awnings — 
leaning  against  the  wall  by  the  post-office,  sitting 
on  boxes  by  the  grocery  ;  some  indolently  telling 
stories  and  chaffing  ;  some  looking  sleepily  before 
them  in  absolute  repose  ;  some  in  various  stages  of 
inert  drunkenness.  All  stared  curiously  at  young 
Strong  and  the  strange  lady,  and  prepared  to 


112        YOUNG   STRONG   OF  "THE    CLARION." 

talk   them  over  afterward,   but  no  one  addressed 
him. 

They  turned  aside  soon  into  a  broad  cross  street 
with  no  sidewalk,  where  the  coarse  dust  was  in 
places  ankle  deep.  Behind  them,  beyond  the  main 
street,  a  few  groups  of  yellowing  cottonwoods  on 
bare  banks  of  reddish  clay  marked  the  course  of 
the  Sacramento  ;  before  them  the  street  faded  into 
a  limitless  expanse  of  gravel,  thinly  dotted  in  the 
distance  with  dull  green  oaks,  and  bounded  by 
long  knolls,  like  wrinkles  in  the  plain,  dark  with 
oaks  against  the  smoky  sky  of  September — a  sky 
dull  blue  above,  dull  gray  near  the  horizon. 

Along  either  side  of  the  street  the  flimsy  wooden 
houses  were  set  back,  each  in  its  yard,  and  sur- 
rounded by  oleanders  ;  sometimes  there  would  be. 
a  few  parched  roses,  a  trellis  of  Madeira-vine,  a 
patch  of  carefully  nursed  grass,  often  a  row  of 
China  trees,  whose  fallen  black  seeds  stippled  the 
dust — but  always  the  great  rosy  clumps  of  olean- 
ders, glorying  in  the  heat  and  drought.  Every 
evening  after  dinner  the  owners  come  out,  and 
stand  watering  these  gardens  with  hose  and 
sprinkler,  till  all  along  the  street  there  is  a  mur- 
mur like  rain  and  a  smell  of  damp  earth,  and  here 
and  there  through  the  warm  twilight  a  glimpse  of 
the  white  sprays  of  water  ;  while  the  families  sit 
on  the  porches  and  doorstep,  and  gossip  and  laugh. 
At  this  hour,  however,  the  little  gardens  and  splen- 
did oleanders  lay  hot  and  deserted  in  the  dusty  af- 
ternoon. 


YOUNG   STRONG   OF  "THE    CLARION."       113 

"  I  haven't  till  now  had  time  to  spare  from  be- 
ing anxious  to  be  interested,"  Miss  Northrop  said. 
"  I  was  rather  panic-stricken  this  morning,  and 
things  were  awful,  instead  of  interesting,  in  pro- 
portion to  their  newness." 

This  bit  of  pathos  stiffened  Will's  manner  with 
the  awkwardness  of  over-feeling,  as  he  asked  : 
"  Now,  what  can  I  do  for  you — Winifred  ?" 

The  awkwardness  made  him  more  like  the 
school-boy  Will  ;  and  then,  a  familiar  face  four 
thousand  miles  from  home  seems  more  familiar 
than  it  really  is.  Miss  Northrop  answered  confid- 
ingly :  "  I  will  tell  you  all  about  it,  and  then  you 
will  know  what  to  do.  I  wrote  to  Judge  Garvey — 
some  one  referred  me  to  him  at  Sacramento — and 
asked  if  I  might  teach  the  school.  He  wrote  back 
that  I  might,  fixed  the  day,  and  directed  me  to  a 
boarding-place  that  he  had  engaged  for  me.  So  I 
came  by  yesterday  evening's  train,  and  sent  word 
that  I  was  here.  This  morning  he  called  and  told 
me — with  most  oppressive  civility — that  as  I  had 
not  answered  his  last  letter,  the  place  had  been 
given  to  some  one  else.  He  said  '  professional  eti- 
quette '  here  demands  an  answer  in  such  a  case, 
and  failure  to  answer  is  equivalent  to  a  withdrawal 
of  the  application." 

"  He  lied,"  said  Will,  parenthetically,  walking 
along  with  his  eyes  on  the  ground  ;  she,  on  the 
contrary,  looked  at  him  often,  with  frank  direct- 
ness. 

"  He  did   not  impress   me,"    she  said,  "  as  the 


114        YOUNG  STRONG   OF  "THE    CLARION." 

soul  of  candor.  I  said  as  little  as  possible  to  him, 
but  when  he  was  gone  I  asked  about  the  rest  of 
the  committee,  and  as  soon  as  I  heard  your  name  I 
hoped  it  was  you  ;  I  knew  you  were  somewhere  in 
California.  This  afternoon  I  received  his  letter 
written  to  prevent  my  coming.  It  had  followed 
me  up  here  by  the  same  train  that  I  came  on." 
She  held  the  letter  in  her  hand,  and  Will  quietly 
took  it  and  kept  it.  "I  would  not  raise  any  con- 
troversy about  such  a  thing,"  she  went  on,  "  if  I 
had  any  idea  in  the  world  where  else  to  go  or 
what  to  do."  Her  voice  sharpened  a  little  again, 
with  a  note  of  pathos. 

Will  did  not  know  how  to  answer  without  seem- 
ing to  question  or  comment,  so  there  came  a 
pause  ;  then  he  said  : 

"  This  Coakley  was  an  electioneering  agent  of 
Garvey's,  and  doesn't  know  enough  to  teach 
babies.  He  seems  to  have  turned  up  suddenly 
wanting  help,  and  the  Judge  is  willing  enough  to 
keep  him  on  hand  and  under  obligations  until  next 
election. " 

Miss  Northrop  stopped  short  and  looked  at  him 
with  brows  a  little  raised,  and  her  bearing  became 
impalpably  more  distant. 

"  But  I  cannot  enter  into  contest  with — these 
men  for  permission  to  teach  school  here,"  she  said. 

She  was  right,  in  her  quick  feeling  that  Will 
Strong's  training  could  not  have  made  work  and 
discomfort  and  contact  with  vulgarity  seem  out- 
side the  sphere  of  women.  If  it  had  been  one  of 


YOUNG  STRONG   OF  "THE    CLARION."       115 

his  OWIT  sisters  he  would  have  said  :  "  Oh,  well, 
we  have  to  take  the  world  as  we  find  it.  Brace  up, 
little  girl  ;  I'll  put  you  safe  through,  and  you'll 
find  it's  not  so  bad,  after  all." 

But  what  he  said  to  Winifred  Northrop  was  :  "  It 
is  outrageous  !  Such  brutes  as  Garvey  have  no 
business  to  look  at  a  lady  !  If  you  really  prefer  not 
to  take  the  school,"  he  went  on,  with  some  embar- 
rassment, "  I  hope  you  will  call  on  me  to  help  you  in 
any  other  way  ;  but  if  you  want  the  school  you  shall 
have  it,  and  no  annoyance  with  it  that  I  can  help." 

Miss  Northrop  repented  that  she  had  repented 
her  confidence.  "  I  remembered  that  you  were 
kind  of  old,  Will" — and  her  manner  was  irresist- 
ibly winning  when  she  said  such  a  thing — "  but 
you  are  so  very  kind  now  that  you  make  me 
ashamed.  I  only  meant  to  ask  you  what  I  must 
do.  Yes,  I  must  take  this  position  if  I  can,  for  I 
have  no  alternative." 

"  There  is  nothing  for  you  to  do,"  he  said.  "  It 
is  my  place,  as  an  officer  of  the  school,  to  see  that 
its  rightful  teacher  is  not  defrauded." 

"  So  it  is,"  she  said,  relieved.  "  But  I  am  none 
the  less  grateful." 

"  It  is  a  pleasure  to  me  to  be  able  to  do  anything 
for  you,"  he  said,  gravely,  somewhat  stiffly — from 
his  tone  you  would  not  have  suspected  much  more 
truth  than  usual  in  the  formula. 

She  only  said  :  "  You  are  very  kind,"  and  then 
he  lifted  his  hat,  and  left  her  at  Mrs.  Stutt's  gate. 

He   deliberately    and    literally    believed,    as   he 


Ii6        YOUNG   STRONG   OF  "THE    CLARION." 

walked  down  the  street — directly  to  Green's — that 
he  was  the  happiest  man  in  the  world.  For  that 
matter,  it  is  not  impossible  that  he  was.  He  was 
absolutely  innocent  of  conscious  hyperbole  in  say- 
ing, "  It  would  be  worth  a  life-time  of  trouble  only 
to  have  seen  her  ;  and  I  know  her  and  am  able  to 
do  her  a  service  !" 

He  scored  one  advantage  in  having  seen  Miss 
Northrop  early  ;  he  saw  Green  before  Garvey  had 
talked  with  him.  The  report  of  the  quarrel  had 
by  no  means  failed  to  reach  "  The  American 
Eagle,"  and  when  Strong  came  in  Uncle  Billy 
Green  was  just  expressing  himself  with  regard  to 
Coakley  : 

"  Of  course  the  Judge'll  provide  for  his  man 
when  he  gets  a  chance.  That's  where  he's  sharp. 
And  if  Coakley  is  smart  enough  to  suit  Judge  Gar- 
vey, he's  smart  enough  to  teach  my  children — that's 
what  /say." 

A  private  audience  with  him  would  have  been 
merely  postponing  the  hour  of  general  discussion, 
so  Strong  made  a  brief  exposition  of  his  case — 
gently  enough,  but  with  considerable  force — then 
and  there,  displaying  the  letter  he  carried  by  way 
of  proof.  He  hardly  expected  to  elicit  anything 
but  the  usual  laugh  and  comment  on  the  Judge's 
smartness.  But  there  was  a  marked  seriousness  of 
tone  in  the  remarks  when  he  ended. 

"  Well,  that  is  pretty  rough." 
'  Yes,    sir,    that's   going   too   far.      The   Judge 
ought  to  know  where  to  stop.     I  don't  stand  by  no 


YOUNG   STRONG   OF  "THE    CLARION."       117 

man  when  it  comes  to  a. shabby  trick  on  an  unpro- 
tected school-marm." 

"  A  real  lady,  too — I  could  see  that  when  she 
went  by  with  you,  Strong." 

Even  Green  said,  uneasily,  "  No,  I  shouldn't 
think  the  Judge  ought  to  do  that,  quite." 

It  was  evident  that  Green's  Ferry  drew  its  lines 
as  much  as  any  other  town.  The  moral  support  it 
offered  Strong  was  mainly  negative,  however,  and 
Green,  after  several  alternate  conversations  with 
his  two  fellow  trustees  during  this  Saturday  even- 
ing, went  off  early  Sunday  morning  to  visit  his 
married  daughter  at  the  old  Meeker  place,  leaving 
word  that  they  must  fix  it  between  them.  Judge 
Garvey  closed  the  somewhat  stormy  conference  of 
Saturday  evening  with  a  promise  to  break  down 
Miss  Northrop' s  school  in  a  week,  and  Strong's 
paper  in  a  month.  "  Do  you  flatter  yourself  I 
should  not  have  had  your  contemptible  sheet  in 
powder  under  my  feet,  sir,  before  this,  if  I  had 
thought  it  worth  the  attention  ?"  Nevertheless,  as 
there  was  nothing  on  which  the  Judge  prided  him- 
self more  than  on  his  invariable  civility  to  ladies 
("  the  courtly  Judge"  was  his  favorite  phrase  in 
writing  up  a  local  notice  of  any  affair  at  which  he 
had  been  present),  Strong,  having  possession  of  the 
school-house  key,  was  able  to  put  Miss  Northrop 
into  possession  on  Monday  morning  without  oppo- 
sition. The  Judge  even  visited  her  during  the  day 
and  addressed  the  school  with  extreme  suavity. 

He  was,  however,  very  seriously  affronted,  and 


liS       YOUNG   STRONG   OF  "THE    CLARION." 

had  not  passed  his  Sunday  without  diligent  prepa- 
ration among  parents  and  children  to  make  Miss 
Northrop's  position  untenable.  It  would  have 
been  no  difficult  task,  either,  but  for  an  altogether 
unprecedented  obstacle — a  factor  that  he  had  not 
dreamed  of  in  his  calculations,  and  that  Strong 
himself  had  underestimated.  The  children,  who 
had  gone  to  school  Monday  morning  primed  for 
mutiny,  surrendered  their  hearts  in  a  body  to  Miss 
Northrop  by  night  ;  three  days  later,  Uncle  Billy 
Green's  niece,  who  taught  the  primary  school, 
gave  in  adoring  allegiance  ;  by  the  end  of  the  week 
everybody  who  had  seen  her  was  her  advocate.  It 
was  certainly  an  unprecedented  thing  that  Judge 
Garvey's  best  exertions  should  come  to  naught, 
because  of  a  woman's  way  of  smiling  and  speak- 
ing ;  but  Miss  Northrop's  tenure  of  the  school  was 
secure.  It  was  not  entirely  speech  and  smile,  how- 
ever. Miss  Northrop  was  interested  in  everything, 
and  consequently  had  common  ground  with  every- 
body ;  and  she  met  each  one  on  that  ground,  not 
so  much  ignoring  as  temporarily  forgetting  differ- 
ences. 

The  year  wore  on  from  gray  to  gray  ;  the  parch- 
ing north  wind  poured  down  the  plain  and  dark- 
ened the  air  with  gritty  dust  ;  the  sky,  though 
cloudless,  grew  murkier  every  day.  Then  the 
wind  shifted  to  the  south,  and  the  sky  grew 
darker  yet  with  surging  heaps  of  clouds,  and  at 
last  down  came  the  late  November  rain  ;  and  next 
morning  Miss  Northrop  could  see,  like  a  miracu- 


YOUNG   STRONG   OF  "THE   CLARION."       119 

lous  creation  of  the  night,  up  and  down  every  east- 
and-west  street,  a  range  of  azure  mountains  along 
either  horizon,  snow-crowned,  clear-cut,  against 
an  exquisite  blue  sky.  Every  two  or  three  weeks 
the  surge  of  clouds  would  come  rolling  up  with  the 
south  wind,  and  the  rain  would  come  down  in  tor- 
rents for  days,  till  the  Sacramento,  yellow  with 
mud,  roared  level  with  its  banks  ;  and  then  the 
storm  would  break  away,  and  there  would  be  a 
week  or  two  of  blue  sky  and  brilliant  air  and  green 
earth. 

One  Sunday  in  March,  between  the  early  and 
the  latter  rains,  Miss  Northrop  and  Will  Strong 
walked  out  together  several  miles  over  the  plain. 
The  gravel  had  long  disappeared  under  green  bur- 
clover  and  filaria,  thickly  dotted  with  the  little 
yellow  clover  blossoms,  the  lilac  ones  of  \hz  filaria, 
and  with  small  blue  gilias.  The  flocks  and  herds 
had  been  driven  down  from  the  mountains  where 
they  spend  their  summers  and  autumns,  and  the 
air  was  full  of  the  bleating  of  lambs.  Up  and 
down  either  horizon,  converging  toward  the  north, 
were  the  long  ranks  of  the  Sierras  and  Coast 
Range,  deep  blue,  ruggedly  tipped  with  white 
peaks  of  all  shapes — the  Lassen  Buttes,  the  Yallo 
Baileys,  and  many  a  lesser  one.  Northward,  in 
the  interval  between  the  ranges,  miles  and  miles 
away,  the  solitary  peak  of  Shasta  rose  above  the 
dark  oak-knolls,  sharp-white  from  base  to  tip, 
against  a  stainless  sky.  They  sat  down  on  the 
warm  clover,  beside  a  noisy  yellow  stream  that  ran 


120        YOUNG   STRONG   OF  "THE    CLARION." 

full  to  its  banks  on  its  way  to  the  Sacramento. 
Winifred  pushed  back  her  hat,  dropped  her  hands 
in  her  lap,  and  let  her  senses  be  played  upon  by 
the  delicious  air,  the  blue  and  white  of  mountains 
and  sky  and  clouds,  the  luminous  green,  the  rush- 
ing of  water  close  by,  and  the  bleating  of  flocks  in 
the  distance.  It  gave  Will  a  good  chance  to  watch 
her  face — the  sweetness  of  the  mouth  ;  the  nobility 
of  the  level  brows  ;  the  frankness  of  the  eyes  ;  the 
soft  wave  of  her  hair.  There  was  a  marked  sad- 
ness in  her  face  in  repose  ;  to  wonder  why,  was  to 
transgress  the  code  of  loyal  humility  that  Will  set 
himself  ;  he  had  not  even  considered  it  due  chiv- 
alry to  speculate,  much  less  ask,  as  to  the  reason 
of  so  amazing  a  phenomenon  as  her  presence  in 
California  at  all,  and  the  incongruity  of  her  school- 
teaching.  Her  pose  was  perfect,  and  yet  nothing 
could  be  more  unconscious.  Was  that  marvellous 
spontaneity,  that  simple  dignity,  the  regular  thing 
among  the  men  and  women  Winifred  belonged 
with  ?  It  made  him  feel  left  very  far  out  to  think 
so.  How  incapable  of  effort  for  admiration  she 
was,  yet  how  invariably  admirable  ! 

She  caught  him  looking  at  her,  in  time.  "  What 
is  it  ?"  she  said,  simply. 

He  colored  with  some  confusion,  but  confessed 
a  piece  of  his  thought.  "  I  was  wondering  if  you 
really  do  not  care  at  all  for  admiration.  Most 
people  would  think  they  got  the  good  of  their  living 
in  being  praised  a  fraction  as  much  as  you've  been. 
If  that's  impertinent  I  beg  your  pardon  ;  you 
asked  me." 


YOUNG  STRONG  OF  "THE   CLAXION."       121 

The  portion  of  aristocrat's  pride  that  was  in 
Winifred  was  largely  concentrated  in  an  objection 
to  talking  of  herself  or  letting  other  people  do  it  ; 
so  she  looked  a  little  annoyed.  She  began  with 
some  constraint  : 

"  Yes — I  care — at  first — when  it  is  the  right  one 
that  praises.  But  there  is  always  a  reaction  of 
self-distrust.  It  seems  humiliating,"  she  went  on 
more  frankly,  "  to  have  been  praised  for  having 
done  some  common  thing —  solved  a  problem,  or 
written  a  poem,  or  handled  a  piano — a  little  more 
or  less  cleverly,  when  one  comes  to  think  what 
education  and  art  are.  And  personal  admiration — 
that  always  seems  a  contemptible  sort  of  folly,  if 
you  think  of  what  great  things  there  are  to  do  and 
be  in  the  world,  and  the  lives  the  great  lonely  souls 
have  lived." 

"  Your  achievement  seems  little  to  you,"  said 
Will,  with  some  gloom,  "  because,  I  suppose,  more 
always  opens  to  you.  To  me,  who  have  made 
none — " 

"  Why,  Will,"  she  cried,  with  the  most  genuine 
dissent.  "  You  have  done  more  than  almost  any 
one  I  know.  Do  you  call  it  nothing  to  do  a  college 
curriculum  alone  and  under  all  sorts  of  hindrances  ? 
And  I  know  that  it  was  done  well  and  thoroughly. ' ' 

"  Oh,  yes,"  he  said,  indifferently,  tossing  bits  of 
clover  into  the  stream,  "  I  could  have  passed  an 
A.  B.  fast  enough.  But  you  know  better  than  I 
do,  Winifred,  that  that's  the  least  of  a  college 
course.  I've  seen  fellows  that  had  to  work  their 


122        YOUNG  STRONG   OF  "THE    CLARION." 

way  through  and  had  no  spare  time  or  energy,  and 
they  always  lacked  a  great  deal  of  the  college 
flavor  ;  the  education  didn't  permeate  'em.  Then 
there  are  other  things — music,  art,  social  oppor- 
tunities, capacity  of  expression — that  are  no  slight 
things  to  miss  ;  they  make  up  more  of  first-class 
living  than  Greek  optatives  or  the  equation  of  a 
surface.  It  isn't  really  possible  for  a  man,  not 
backed  by  circumstances,  to  get  himself  into  a 
position  that  some  are  born  to."  He  let  the  clover 
be  and  looked  up.  "  Oh,  I'm  not  growling,  Wini- 
fred," he  said,  hastily,  smiling,  as  he  saw  her  about 
to  speak  eagerly.  "  I'm  only  making  philosoph- 
ical observations,  and  using  myself  as  an  illustra- 
tion. Why  in  the  world  should  I  growl  to  find 
myself  stranded  half  way  up,  when  there  is  a  town- 
ful  of  pe'ople  behind  us  clear  down  at  the  bottom, 
and  no  more  their  fault  than  mine  ?  Why  should 
I  mind  that  I  am  left  out  from  the  best  chances, 
any  more  than  that  a  thousand  other  fellows  are  ? 
'  What  Act  of  Legislature  was  there  that '  /  should 
be  cultured  ?" 

She  was  leaning  forward  with  her  irresistible 
eyes  full  on  his,  and  face  and  voice  vivified  with 
that  sympathetic  expressiveness  that  makes  speech 
count  for  far  more  than  the  words. 

"  Will,  that  is  true,"  sh.e  cried,  "  but  it  is  only 
part  of  the  truth.  '  Close  thy  '  Carlyle  ;  '  open  thy  ' 
Emerson.  It's  true,  you  have  missed  some  things 
that  you  deserved  to  have  and  that  many  of  your 
inferiors  have  for  nothing.  But  your  life  is  only 


YOUNG   STRONG   OF  "THE    CLARION."       123 

begun,  and  your  ability  and  pluck  can  do  so  much 
that  you  needn't  waste  regret  on  anything  they 
may  fail  to  do.  Even  if  circumstances  be  uncon- 
querable that  stand  between  you  and  some  good 
things,  are  the  things  you  have  gained  instead  of 
less  value  ? — your  courage  and  patience,  your 
self-reliance  and  trustworthiness  and  helpfulness  ? 
Why,  Will,  character  is  worth  more  than  knowl- 
edge of  art,  or  familiarity  with  good  society  ;  just 
to  live  bravely  is  worth  more  than  all  the  rest. 
Do  you  suppose  I  would  exchange  your  com- 
panionship for  that  of  a  dozen  '  cultured  '  people 
who  could  talk  to  me  about  '  sincere  furniture  ' 
— this  was  in  the  last  decade,  remember — "  and 
Rauss's  heads,  as  you  can't,  and  who  never  showed 
me  one  spark  of  genuine  feeling  about  the  great 
things  of  life,  as  you  can  ?" 

Will  was  overwhelmed.  Winifred  had  talked  of 
his  affairs  much,  following  them  with  unvarying 
interest,  but  of  himself  or  herself,  never  ;  and  it 
was  actually  a  new  idea  to  the  young  fellow  that 
she  could  have  any  very  high  opinion  of  him. 
Moreover,  it  was  the  first  time  he  had  heard  her 
speak  with  unveiled  and  ardent  feeling. 

"  You  do  not  mean" — and  he  formed  his  words 
with  difficulty — "  that  I  could  meet  on  equal 
ground  people  that — such  people  as  your  associ- 
ates." 

"  No  ;  you  would  meet  most  of  them  on  higher 
ground.  If  they  didn't  know  it,  that  would  be 
their  discredit.  I  should  think  you  could  see 


124        YOUNG   STRONG   OF  "THE    CLARION." 

that,"  she  added,  in  a  quick,  parenthetic  averse 
way,  "  from  their  associate.  If  you  want  to  get  a 
higher  opinion  of  the  value  of  your  life,  compare 
it  with  an  ordinary,  foolish,  useless  one — like 
mine."  She  gave  him  no  chance  to  answer  that, 
but  was  the  next  moment  on  her  feet,  suggesting 
that  they  walk  on,  and  wishing  they  were  not  to 
Stop  short  of  the  Lassen  Buttes,  whose  apparent 
nearness,  scores  of  miles  distant  as  they  were,  was 
still  a  perpetual  surprise  to  her  eastern  eyes. 

When  everything  has  been  made  ready  for  it,  a 
few  sentences  may  easily  make  or  mark  an  era  in 
life  ;  and  it  is  probable  that  if  Miss  Northrop  had 
not  in  effect  told  young  Strong  he  was  quite  good 
enough  for  her,  he  might  have  remained  her  con- 
tented vassal  for  years.  Six  months  of  being  her 
nearest  friend  worked  their  result,  to  be  sure  ;  but 
the  humility  they  were  gnawing  at  was  of  mediae- 
vally  tough  fibre,  and  of  twice  six  years'  growth. 
His  depreciation  of  himself,  however,  had  only 
meant  sense  of  distance  from  her  ;  therefore,  his 
sense  of  the  significance  of  her  speech  was  enor- 
mous. He  felt  his  relation  to  her  changed  ;  he  was 
shaken  from  all  his  moorings,  and  thrown  into  a 
mighty  agitation  that  possessed  him  night  and  day, 
and  only  grew  with  time.  For  this  was  what  it  all 
came  to  :  Was  the  distance  between  Winifred  and 
himself  greater  than  the  distance  between  her  and 
any  other  man  ?  And  when  he  had  once  thought 
that,  the  gate  was  open,  and  the  besieging  host 
marched  in  and  took  possession  of  every  corner  of 


YOUNG   STRONG   OF  "THE    CLARION."       125 

him  with  longing  and  desire  and  a  madness  of  ten- 
derness. 

He  thought  of  nothing  else.  He  wrote  his 
editorials  and  set  type  under  an  unceasing  sense 
of  it,  as  people  have  done  brain-work  and  finger- 
work  to  an  accompaniment  of  unceasing  physical 
pain.  For  there  was  nothing  joyous  about  it  to 
him  ;  it  was  all  a  bitter  pain  of  mad  desire  to  be 
something  to  her — to  secure  her,  somehow,  before 
this  great,  dark  future  swept  her  away  from  him. 
And  yet  the  latter  rains  came  and  went,  the  green 
faded  from  the  ground,  the  mountains  grew  dim- 
mer and  duller,  and  at  last  disappeared  in  the 
summer  murk,  before  he  took  in  his  own  mind  the 
next  step — from  lover  to  suitor,  as  before  from 
vassal  to  lover. 

He  did  so  simply  because  he  could  not  stand  it 
any  longer.  It  stood  to  reason  that  there  must  be 
a  way  out  of  such  active  torments.  And,  after  all, 
why  not  he  as  well  as  any  other  man  ?  It  was 
absurd  to  suppose  that  Winifred  could  ever  be  in 
love  with  any  man,  as  a  ,man  would  be  with  her. 
It  occurred  to  Will  that  the  thing  to  do  was 
natural  enough,  after  all — not  to  ask  Winifred's 
love,  but  to  offer  her  his.  And  he  walked  down 
to  Mrs.  Stutt's  to  do  it,  one  August  evening,  a 
little  before  school  opened  after  vacation.  He  was 
in  good  spirits,  too  ;  to  come  to  action  and  to 
speech,  after  so  long  repression,  was  an  inestimable 
relief.  And  she  had  been  doubly  friendly  to  him 
all  this  time. 


126        YOUNG   STRONG   OF  "THE    CLARION:' 

Mrs.  Stutt  was  in  her  little  strip  of  grass  and 
oleanders.  "That  you,  Mr.  Strong?"  she  called 
out  cheerily  as  he  lifted  the  gate-latch.  "  Well, 
Miss  Northrop's  in  the  sitting-room,  I  s'pose.  You 
go  right  in,  and  I'll  come  in  when  I've  done  my 
watering." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Will,  absently,  and  walked 
on  into  the  house.  Winifred  was  not  in  the  dark 
little  sitting-room.  He  walked  to  the  open  window 
and  stood  there,  expecting  her  to  come  in  pres- 
ently. There  were  veils  of  Madeira  vine  over  the 
window,  just  opening  their  whitish  tassels  of  bloom, 
and  the  air  was  full  of  the  smell  of  them.  Mrs. 
Stutt  began  to  water  the  grass  outside,  and  the 
shower  of  water  from  her  hose  glimmered  through 
the  Madeira  vine  ;  the  noise  of  the  water  came  to 
him,  and  the  crying  of  crickets,  and  the  smell  of 
the  freshly  wet  earth.  Then  he  heard  a  step  on 
the  porch,  and  saw  Winifred  go  down  the  short 
path  to  the  gate.  He  could  see  by  her  white  dress 
that  she  stood  still  there  ;  so  he  went  out,  too,  to 
join  her.  Mrs.  Stutt  was  watering  at  the  other 
side  of  the  house  now,  and  the  two  were  alone. 

Will  stopped  a  moment  in  the  darkness  and  faint 
odor  of  a  great  oleander,  a  few  feet  from  the 
motionless  girl  at  the  gate,  to  realize  well  the  grace 
of  her  dim  white  figure,  and  her  unconscious  atti- 
tude. She  stood  in  a  weary  way,  with  her  head  a 
little  fallen  back,  and  her  hands  hanging  loosely 
clasped  before  her.  There  was  so  much  and  so 
incomprehensible  emotion  in  the  attitude,  that 


YOUNG   STRONG   OF  "THE   CLARION."       127 

Will  felt  vaguely  thrust  out  into  another  world 
from  that  where  her  interests  lay.  She  had  not 
heard  him  approach,  for  the  train  from  the  south 
was  just  coming  to  a  stand  at  the  station,  not  a 
stone's  throw  off,  and  there  was  a  great  noise  of 
jarring  cars,  and  shouting  men,  and  escaping 
steam,  and  ringing  bell.  He  waited  till  the  noise 
should  be  quite  over.  Some  one  came  walking 
rapidly  from  the  station  ;  Will,  glancing  at  the 
dark  figure,  thought  it  had,  even  in  this  dimness, 
an  unfamiliar  look.  It  paused  close  by  the  gate. 

"  Winifred  !" 

Will  did  not  know  the  voice  ;  the  tone  turned 
him  blind  and  dizzy. 

Winifred  started  violently,  and  turned  ;  she 
clasped  her  hands  tightly,  and  lifted  them  to  her 
breast  in  a  frightened  way,  as  she  fell  back  a  step. 

"  Oh,  my  God  !"  she  cried,  under  her  breath. 
There  was  a  rattle  of  the  gate-latch,  a  sharp  flying 
open  of  the  gate,  and  the  stranger  held  her  in  his 
arms. 

"  My  darling,  my  darling  !"  he  said,  with  an 
infinite  tenderness.  "  Did  you  think  you  could 
hide  anywhere  in  all  this  wide  world  where  I 
should  not  find  you  ?" 

For  just  an  instant  she  yielded  to  his  clasp — then 
she  drew  back.  "  You  must  not,"  she  said,  softly, 
with  unmistakable  pain  in  her  voice.  "  You  know 
that.  I  thought  if  I  was  utterly  out  of  sight  or 
hearing,  you  would  forget  me,  and  /  might — for- 
get myself." 


128        YOUNG  STRONG   OF  "THE    CLARION" 

He  broke  in  before  she  had  fairly  spoken. 
"  You  were  mistaken,  Winifred  ;  there  was  no  one 
between  us.  O  my  foolish  little  hot-head  !  if  you 
had  not  been  so  headlong  in  your  self- sacrifice — if 
you  had  only  waited  till  I  came  back — I  could  have 
showed  you  in  ten  minutes  that  there  was  no  place 
for  it.  Mollie  is  married  to  John  Gates  and  is  very 
happy.  And  you  and  I — my  little  girl,  how  nearly 
our  two  lives  have  been  spoiled  !  Sweetheart,"  he 
said,  laughing  with  a  shaky  voice,  "  I  think  I  shall 
never  dare  let  go  of  you  again" — and  he  drew  her 
back  to  him. 

She  hesitated — surrendered — clung  to  him  with 
a  long  sobbing  breath.  "  Oh,  I  have  wanted  you 
so,  I  have  wanted  you.  so  !"  she  cried.  "  Oh,  don't 
be  a  dream  and  melt  away  this  time  !" 

Will  Strong,  standing  close  in  the  darkness  of 
the  oleander,  acquiring  a  life-long  association  with 
smell  of  Madeira  vine  and  oleander  and  wet  earth, 
cry  of  crickets  and  noise  of  sprinkling  water, 
gathered  himself  together  enough  to  creep  away. 
He  was  going  to  realize  it  pretty  soon,  he  thought  ; 
he  did  not  yet  ;  it  seemed  likely  to  be  beyond 
endurance  when  he  did.  As  he  passed  the  door 
some  one  opened  it,  and  the  lamp-light  streamed 
about  him  ;  Winifred  looked  around  and  saw  his 
face  for  an  instant,  and  then  he  had  slipped  away 
through  a  side  gate. 

He  walked  out  from  town  across  miles  of  dark 
plain,  until  he  came  to  the  empty  channel  of  the 
stream  by  which  they  had  sat  in  March.  Under- 


YOUNG  STRONG   OF  "THE    CLARION:'       129 

foot  not  a  blade  of  grass  or  green  thing  ;  no 
stranger  would  have  believed  that  living  thing  had 
ever  grown  there.  The  flocks  and  herds  had  long 
since  gone  to  the  mountain  pastures.  The  dry 
channel  between  shelvy  banks  of  gravel  showed 
white  in  the  unclouded  yet  dull  starlight.  The  air 
was  lifeless,  and  faintly  tainted  with  smoke  from 
forest  fires  in  the  mountains. 

Will  threw  himself  down  on  his  face,  clutching 
with  his  fingers  at  the  gritty  dirt.  He  knew  as 
surely  then,  looking  forward  to  his  life,  as  he  will 
know  at  the  end  looking  back,  that  this  would 
never  be  an  out-lived  romance.  Nor  could  he 
creep  back  into  that  temple  of  dreams  from  which 
Winifred's  own  hand  had  lured  him — it  had  crum- 
bled to  dust  behind  him.  Nor  was  he  like  one 
who,  losing  a  woman,  loses  only  his  best  pleasure 
and  best  ambition  ;  she  was  the  vital  condition  to 
every  pleasure,  every  ambition  ;  losing  her,  he  lost 
all.  The  realization  clutched  him  by  this  time 
like  a  tiger.  There  was  not  a  living  creature 
within  miles  ;  a  man  might  go  down  to  primal 
depths,  might  drop  even  the  restraint  of  the  human 
in  outcries  and  struggles  as  free  as  a  tortured 
beast's.  It  may  be  that  solitude  sees  more  such 
scenes  than  a  decently  decorous  world  would  like 
to  think. 

Yet  there  was  a  sense  upon  him  of  some  moral 
demand,  some  decision  to  be  made  ;  and  in  time 
he  began  to  try  to  collect  himself  for  it.  It  would 
seem  as  if  there  could  hardly  be  a  position  that 


130        YOUNG   STRONG   OF  "THE    CLARION." 

left  less  for  him  to  decide.  There  was  no  question 
of  renouncing — he  had  never  had  anything  to 
renounce.  Nevertheless,  his  instinct  was  correct 
in  urging  him  to  a  moral  conflict  and  a  momentous 
decision.  The  question  was  simply  whether  he 
could  pick  up  his  life  again,  could  find  faith  that 
anything  was  worth  living  for  ;  or  whether  life 
was  to  be  a  hollow  going  through  the  forms — frus- 
trated, purposeless,  full  of  brooding  regret  and 
jealousy,  shame,  and  sense  of  wrong.  But  he 
could  not  drag  his  bruised  mind  up  to  the  ques- 
tion ;  he  could  not  even  think  what  it  was.  He 
lifted  himself  up,  stepped  down  into  the  dry 
channel,  and  knelt  on  the  white  stones,  obeying 
old  association  with  the  attitude  ;  laid  his  arms 
and  head  on  a  shelf  of  the  bank,  and  let  the 
stunned  and  nerveless  will  lie  passive,  while  the 
accumulated  forces  of  years — of  generations — pas- 
sion and  pain  and  despair  and  love,  shame  and 
bitterness  and  loyalty — trampled  back  and  forth 
over  him,  fighting  out  for  him  his  battle. 

It  was  deathly,  aggressively  still  ;  not  an  insect 
to  chirp,  not  a  tree  to  rustle  ;  only  bare  earth  and 
sodden  air.  After  a  longtime  Will  raised  his  head 
and  threw  it  back,  looking  up  at  the  dull  stars, 
while  his  outstretched  hands  lay  clasped  before 
him  ;  he  began  to  breathe  more  deeply.  Not 
many  minutes  later  he  rose  and  walked  homeward 
across  the  dim,  wide  waste. 

It  was  afternoon  of  the  next  day  when  he  stood 
at  Mrs.  Stutt's  door  again.  Mrs.  Stutt  looked  at 


YOUNG   STRONG   OF  "THE   CLARION."       131 

him  with  the  embarrassment  of  conscious  pity  as 
she  admitted  him.  People  had  been  looking  at 
him  all  day,  on  the  street  and  in  the  office,  with 
the  same  embarrassment  and  pity.  Miss  Northrop 
was  packing,  the  good  woman  said  ;  and,  in  an 
answer  to  her  call,  Winifred  came  out  from  her 
room  into  the  little  sitting-room.  She,  too,  was 
evidently  under  agitation  and  embarrassment. 
Will  had  no  doubt,  from  his  first  sight  of  her  face, 
that  she  had  seen  and  understood  his  haggard 
flight  the  evening  before.  He  was  himself  entirely 
calm,  as  he  held  out  his  hand  with  a  grave  smile 
in  silence. 

Winifred  tried  to  speak  naturally. 

"  I  had  just  sent  a  note  to  you,  Will,"  she  said, 
as  they  sat  down. 

"  About  the  school,  I  suppose,"  he  answered, 
quietly.  "  You  are  going  away  at  once  ?" 

"Yes."  There  she  stopped,  with  her  eyes 
downcast.  She  looked  up  to  his  face  and  caught 
her  breath  to  speak,  stopped,  and  began  again. 

"  You  have  been  very  good  to  me  all  this  year — " 
there  she  hesitated.  Her  difficulty  was  to  choose 
her  words  so  as  to  ignore  his  secret,  and  yet  not 
part  from  him  in  a  cold  or  inadequate  way. 

He  rose,  and  crossed  over  to  her. 

"  Winifred,"  he  said  gently,  "  you  are  distressed 
on  my  account  ;  and  so  it  is  better  that  I  should 
speak  of  what  otherwise  it  would  be  better  to 
ignore.  I  want  you  to  know  that  you  have  not 
harmed  me." 


132        YOUNG   STRONG   OF  "THE    CLARION." 

She  rose  quickly  at  that,  and  they  stood  near 
together,  with  their  eyes  fixed  on  each  other's  ; 
the  fulness  of  expression  in  her  face  seemed  to 
take  the  place  of  answer.  He  went  on  steadily, 
speaking  low  : 

"  I  have  thought  it  all  over,  and  I  find  these  two 
things  stronger  than  any  pain  that  may  have  come 
to  me.  Winifred,  I  cannot  do  you  this  wrong,  to 
make  you  the  instrument  of  evil  to  me.  That  is 
one  of  the  two  things.  And  the  other  is  that  there 
is  nothing  to  reproach  any  one  with  ;  no  one  has 
done  wrong  ;  there  is  no  cause  for  shame,  or 
resentment,  or  bitterness — only  for  clean  pain. 
Pain  is  no  great  evil,  Winifred,  when  it  is  clean, 
no  matter  how  sharp." 

He  smiled  at  her  tranquilly  enough  as  he  spoke. 
In  truth,  he  was  not  unhappy  at  the  moment.  It 
is  not  during  but  after  the  parting  interview  that 
the  pinch  comes.  She  answered  him  only  with  her 
deeply  attentive  look,  and  he  went  on  : 

"  I  did  not  come  to  those  convictions  ;  they 
came  to  me  ;  or  rather,  they  were  in  me,  and  bore 
down  all  the  other  feelings.  All  the  noisy  passions 
dropped  away  before  them,  and  left  just  those 
clear  voices  in  my  soul.  They  made  all  my  love 
and  loyalty  work  together,  instead  of  tearing  me 
in  opposite  directions.  For,  see,  Winifred,  hasn't 
it  been  our  moral  faith  for  years  that  to  do  spir- 
itual harm  to  another  is  the  greatest  evil  that  can  be- 
fall one,  and  to  do  him  spiritual  benefit,  the  greatest 
good  ?  All  these  years  since  we  were  in  school 


YOUNG   STRONG   OF  "THE    CLARION"       133 

together,  I  have  been  proud  to  think  that  it  could 
be  only  a  good  to  you  to  have  me  think  of  you  as 
I  have  thought,  because  it  was  only  a  good  to  me. 
And  I  will  not  be  so  disloyal  now  as  to  let  my  life 
be  spoiled  because  of  you." 

Winifred  looked  at  him  aghast.  "  All  these 
years  !"  It  was  a  revelation  intolerable  at  first 
shock  to  a  woman  that  was  no  coquette. 

"  I  think  it  was  all  the  time  dimly  in  my  mind 
what  your  last  year  had  been  ;  at  last  I  went  out  of 
my  life  and  into  yours.  I  want  you  to  understand 
that  I  do  not  think  of  it  with  bitterness,  because  I 
entered  so  little  into  it  ;  I  realize,  Winifred  " — his 
voice  broke  from  its  steadiness — "  that  you  have 
been  good,  good  in  it  all.  If  you  had  not  been — if 
you  had  trifled  with  me — I  think  I  should  be  at  the 
bottom  of  the  river  to-day.  But  since  no  one  has 
wronged  me,"  he  went  on  more  quietly,  "  since 
nothing  monstrous  or  unnatural  has  befallen  me, 
everything  I  believed  in  has  the  s"ame  claim  on  me 
as  ever. 

"  And  I  want  you  to  know  that  you  need  not 
mind  my  love,  Winifred."  She  dropped  her  eyes 
and  stood  mute.  "  It  is  something  you  may  be 
willing  and  glad  to  have  without  troubling  your- 
self because  you  cannot  return  it.  For  any  pain 
that  has  happened,  do  not  trouble  yourself  about 
that  either — if  I  don't  mind  it,  you  needn't,"  he 
said,  smiling  a  little,  with  a  certain  manly  sweet- 
ness quite  new  to  him.  "  I  find  one  gains  some- 


134        YOUNG   STRONG   OF  "THE    CLARION." 

thing  in  having  no  longer  to  struggle  with  pain 
and  try  to  keep  her  at  arm's  length." 

She  looked  up  then,  and  cried  out  passionately. 
"  O  Will,  Will,  if  only  there  was  anything  in  all 
this  world  I  could  do  to  make  it  up  to  you  !" 

"  There  is  nothing  to  make  up,"  he  said.  "  I 
would  rather  have  pain  from  you  than  pleasure 
from  any  one  else.  But  there  is  something  that 
you  can  do  ;  this  :  not  to  feel  my  love  a  burden 
laid  upon  you,  an  annoyance  or  trespass,  an 
anxiety  or  self-reproach — or  anything  that  will 
make  you  want  to  get  rid  of  it,"  he  finished, 
smiling  again  ;  "and  to  let  me  give  you  all  I  wish, 
on  the  condition  that  I  ask  no  return.  And  if,  in 
a  few  years,  I  should  ask  to  come  and  live  near 
you,  and  be  good  friends — may  I  ?  It  would  be 
hard,"  he  urged,  less  quietly,  "  that  I  should  have 
to  lose  your  friendship,  when  I  ask  nothing  more. 
Would  you  take  away  the  crumbs  from  me,  just 
because  I  have  lost  the  loaf  ?" 

"Is  that  best,  Will?"  she  began,  anxious  and 
hesitating.  "  Oh,  I  mean  for  you.  It  isn't  possible 
that  you  can  always — think  of  me — so.  There  is 
no  reason.  If  you  do  not  see  me — somebody 
else — " 

"  Have  I  been  seeing  you  these  dozen  years?" 
he  said,  very  gently.  "  You  may  trust  me  to  know 
what  is  best  for  me.  Why  think — think  a  moment, 
dear  friend,  and  you  will  understand.  You,  of  all 
people,  can  understand  the  plane  I  want  you  to 
take  me  on." 


YOUNG   STRONG   OF  "THE    CLARION:'       135 

Winifred's  eyes  kindled  and  her  face  flushed. 
"  I  see.  I  do  understand.  I  can  meet  you  on  your 
own  plane,  and  I  can  trust  your  friendship  and 
you.  I  am  not  afraid  to  have  you  come — after  a 
year  or  two." 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said,  shaken  as  he  had  not 
been. 

"  It  is  because  you  are  very  noble  that  any  good 
can  come  out  of  this  harm,"  she  went  on,  with  an 
eloquent  tremor  in  her  voice.  "  I  can  see  that 
before  very  long  I  shall  be,  as  you  said,  willing — 
glad — for  so  great  a  gift — only  always  sorry  for 
your  sake.  I  am  very  grateful  now — I  cannot  tell 
you  how  great  a  thing  I  think  it  is — from  such  a 
man  as  you." 

They  had  both  become  embarrassed  and  shy 
now,  and  both  stood  silent  to  recover  their  ease. 
"  You  leave  by  this  evening's  train  ?"  he  asked  in 
a  minute. 

"Yes." 

:<  Then  this  is  good-by." 

"  For  a  while." 

They  moved  together  to  the  door.  As  they 
reached  it,  Will  turned  and  held  out  his  hand,  with 
an  attempt  at  a  smile.  They  stood  a  few  moments 
with  hands  clasped.  Winifred's  downcast  eyes 
were  filling. 

"  Good-by,  Winifred,"  he  said. 

"  Good-by,"  she  answered,  faintly.  A  minute 
later  she  had  thrown  herself  sobbing  on  her  bed, 
and  he  was  walking  down  the  street. 


136        YOUNG   STRGNG   OF  "THE   CLARION" 

He  met  Winifred's  lover,  coming  from  the  ticket- 
office — a  gentleman  high-bred  and  handsome  in 
every  line,  a  scholar  by  his  appearance,  a  good 
man  by  his  eyes,  a  good  companion  by  his  smile. 
There  were  all  those  differences  between  him  and 
Will  that  the  young  man  had  talked  of  and  Wini- 
fred in  all  sincerity  had  called  nothing  ;  and,  more- 
over, she  would  never  in  the  world  have  loved  him 
if  there  had  not  been.  The  girl  was  an  aristocrat 
after  all,  when  it  came  to  a  question  not  of  friend- 
ship but  love.  And  Will  knew  it  ;  love  is  pene- 
trating enough  to  divine  that  much  from  scant)' 
*data.  He  looked  at  the  stranger  with  a  sort  of 
transferred  reverence — what  a  king  of  men  must 
he  be  whom  Winifred  could  crown  !  And  if  he 
did  not  look  at  him  without  a  blinding  pang,  it 
was,  nevertheless,  a  test  of  the  thoroughness  of  the 
night's  work  that  there  was  neither  bitterness  nor 
aversion  in  it.  Something,  that  sense  of  having 
disarmed  pain — not  dodged  nor  outwitted  it,  but 
disarmed  it  forever — must  have  been  in  Winkel- 
ried's  consciousness  as  the  spears  pressed  in. 

But,  after  all,  it  is*  taking  the  second  place  that 
costs — not  being  there  after  it  has  been  once  sin- 
cerely and  thoroughly  accepted.  Bunyan  knew 
long  ago  that  it  was  easy  walking  in  the  Valley  of 
Humiliation,  once  you  had  come  safely  down. 

On  the  street  an  acquaintance  met  Strong  and 
turned  to  walk  beside  him.  It  was  the  man  who 
would  not  trust  Judge  Garvey  out  of  sight  with 
his  baby's  silver  mug. 


YOUNG  STRONG   OF  "THE    CLARION."       137 

"  I  was  just  going  to  your  office,"  he  said. 
"  It's  something  very  important."  He  spoke  with 
a  marked  friendliness,  and  a  transparently  covert 
sympathy.  "  You  see/'  he  went  on,  confi- 
dentially, "  we  fellows  that  have  been  against 
Garvey  begin  to  think  our  minority's  about  over. 
The  whole  affair  of  Miss  Northrop  has  hurt  him. 
He  was  shabby  when  first  she  came,  about  that 
Coakley  business,  and  he's  been  ugly  about  her 
ever  since  in  a  sneaking  sort  of  way.  Such  a  lady, 
too  !  And  there's  a  thing  come  out  to-day — if 
you'll  excuse  my  speaking  of  it."  He  showed  a 
certain  embarrassment.  "  Uncle  Billy  Green 
gave  it  away  first — he  knew,  being  postmaster — 
but  Garvey's  been  boasting  of  it  himself,  too,  in 
the  bar-room.  You  know  you  used  to  write  to  a 
fellow  in  the  States,  and  haven't  written  to  him  so 
much  lately." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  said  Strong.  The  man  caught 
a  hint  of  what  he  did  not  say  in  what  he  did. 

"  Uncle  Billy  gives  away  any  interesting  point 
he  gets  in  the  post-office,"  he  said,  apologetically. 
"  You  knew  that  before,  Strong.  Well,  Garvey 
got  out  of  him,  too,  that  Miss  Northrop  didn't 
have  nor  write  any  letters  ;  and  he  got  it  into  his 
head  she  was  hiding.  Anybody  could  see  she 
wasn't  used  to  working  for  a  living — " 

"  Look  here — " 

"  Bless  you,  Strong,  I  sha'n't  say  a  word  disre- 
spectful to  her.  This  is  something  you'd  ought  to 
know.  He  just  did  up  a  '  Clarion  '  with  some 


138        YOUNG   STRONG   OF  "THE    CLARION," 

notice  about  the  school  in  it,  and  her  name 
marked,  and  sent  it  to  that  fellow  you  used  to 
write  to  ;  and  he  wrote  on  the  margin  :  '  Please 
forward  to  Miss  N.'s  friends.'  He  said  in  the  bar- 
room, to-day,  that  he  didn't  know  just  what  would 
come  of  it,  but  it  stood  to  reason  if  she  was  on  the 
hide,  it  would  damage  her  or  you,  somehow." 

"  It  hasn't,  however,"  said  Strong.  "  But  if  / 
stayed  round  the  bar-room — " 

"  Oh,  we  choked  him  off.  I  tell  you,  Strong, 
everybody  thinks  it  was  a  pretty  dirty  trick.  The 
people  don't  care  so  much  about  his  big  tricks,  but 
they  won't  stand  any  such  small  ones.  No  money 
in  it,  either — only  spite  !  Well,  the  long  and  the 
short  is — it's  only  a  few  weeks  till  convention  ;  and 
if  you'll  take  hold  now  while  they're  mad,  you  can 
name  your  own  man  for  Senate,  and  we'll  send 
you  to  Assembly." 

"I  don't  want  to  go  to  Assembly,"  said  Will, 
standing  on  his  office-step.  "  I'll  gladly  do  my 
best  to  defeat  Garvey  for  Senate." 

"  Well,  you  just  decide  on  your  man,  and  bring 
him  out  in  your  next  paper  and  we'll  elect  him. 
The  people  are  strong  for  you  just  now.  And  I 
should  think  you  would  look  on  going  to  Assem- 
bly as  a  sort  of  duty — purify  politics,  you  know." 

"Well — I'll  think  about  it."  And  young  Strong 
walked  into  his  shabby  office,  stopped  to  give  Jim 
directions,  then  went  in  behind  his  screen,  and 
sat  down  to  write  a  proper  editorial  for  beginning 
the  reform  campaign. 


HOW  OLD  WIGGINS  WORE  SHIP. 

AN    OLD   SAILOR'S   YARN. 
BY  CAPTAIN  ROLAND  T.  COFFIN. 


WELL,  sir,"  said  the  old  sailor,  "  here  we 
are  ag'in.  I  ain't  been  round  here  much 
lately,  and  atwixt  you  and  me,  she's  put  the 
'  kybosh  '  onto  it,  holdin'  that  comin'  round  here 
and  hystin'  are  promotin'  of  rheumatics,  which,  as 
are  well  known,  they  come  of  long  and  various 
exposures  in  all  climates,  to  say  nothin'  of  watchin' 
onto  a  damp  dock  night  arter  night  continual. 
But  what's  the  use  ?  Everybody  knows  as  a  quiet 
home  are  better  than  silver  and  fine  gold,  which  it 
stands  to  reason  are  to  be  obtained  in  two  ways. 
Wimmin  are  like  sailors  in  some  respects  ;  who- 
ever has  anythin'  to  do  with  'em  must  either  be 
saddled  and  bridled,  leastwise,  or  else  booted  and 
spurred.  You've  got  to  ride  'em,  or  else  they'll  ride 

.*.  The  World,  N.    K,  November,  1878. 


140  HOW  OLD   WIGGINS  WORE   SHIP. 

you.  Bein'  a  sailorman  myself,  it  ain't  likely  as 
I'd  say  anythin'  ag'in  'em  ;  but  if  the  truth  must 
be  told,  I'll  say  this — that  while  it'll  never  do,  not 
at  no  price,  for  to  let  sailors  git  the  upper  hand, 
there's  many  a  man  as  has  giv'  the  helm  into  the 
hands  of  his  old  woman  and  made  a  better  v'yage 
thereby  ;  and  I  don't  mind  sayin',  sir,  that  havin' 
while  follerin'  the  water  got  into  the  habit  of  al- 
lowin'  her  for  to  be  skipper  in  the  house  durin'  my 
short  stoppin's  on  shore,  it  got  for  to  be  so  much 
the  custom,  that  since  comin'  home  for  a  full  due  I 
ain't  never  tried  for  to  break  away  from  it  ;  and 
though  human  natur'  is  falliable,  and  she  does  make 
mistakes,  especially  about  the  hystin',  on  the 
whole,  and  by  and  large,  I  judges  I've  been  a 
gainer  by  it,  as  I  believes  at  least  eight  men  out  of 
ten  would  be  if  they  took  the  hint  accordin'  and 
went  and  done  likewise. 

"  I  don't  go  for  to  say  as  she  ever  goes  to  go 
to  say  I  ain't  a-goin'  for  to  let  you  go  there  ;  but 
it  are  terrible  aggrivokin'  when  the  rheumatics 
twinges  awful,  and  as  it  might  be  that  this  saw- 
mill don't  want  no  more  splinters  laid  onto  it, 
to  have  her  feelin'ly  remark,  '  Well,  if  you  will 
go  round  a-guzzlin'  ale  with  your  swell  friends 
and  a-leavin'  your  lawful  wife  to  home  alone 
you  must  expect  to  pay  for  it,'  whereas  I  know 
it  are  the  dock  and  other  causes  long  gone  by  ; 
but  that  knowledge  don't  ease  the  pain  a  mor- 
sel, and  the  last  time  I  were  that  way  tantalized 
I  swore  I  wouldn't  come  here  no  more.  But  what- 


HOW  OLD   WIGGINS  WORE   SHIP.  141 

ever  are  the  use  ?  Man  resolves  and  reresolves  and 
then  takes  another  snifter,  and  so  here  I  are,  and 
bein'  as  its  cold,  as  so  she  sha'n't  have  no  basis  for 
her  unfeelin'  remark  about  guzzlin'  ale,  we'll  let 
him  make  it  hot  rum,  and  arter  the  old  receipt, 
neither  economizin'  in  the  rum  or  the  sugar,  but 
givin'  a  fair  drink  for  honest  money. 

"  Well,  well  (just  mix  another  afore  the  glass 
cools  off),  to  think  how  the  time  goes.  Here  it  are 
autumn  ag'in,  and  in  a  few  weeks  'twill  be  winter. 
It  reminds  me  (I'll  take  one  more,  if  you  please, 
with  one  lump  less  of  sugar  and  the  space  in  rum) 
that  I'm  gittin'  old,  and  I  feels  it.  My  eyes  ain't 
so  good  and  my  legs  ain't  so  good,  and  I  ain't  so 
good  all  over.  When  I  goes  down  to  the  dock  my 
lantern  are  heavier  than  it  used  to  were,  and  the 
distance  ain't  so  short  as  it  used  to  seem  from  the 
dock  to  the  house.  Afore  many  years  I'll  be  put 
quietly  away,  and  though  I'd  prefer  bein'  beauti- 
fully sewed  up  and  launched  shipshape  in  blue 
water,  with  a  hundred  pound  weight  for  to  keep 
me  down,  I  s' poses  it  won't  make  much  difference, 
nohow.  Anyhow,  if  I  lives  as  long  as  old  Wiggins, 
I  hopes  I  may  go  as  well  at  the  eend.  I  don't 
think  I  ever  told  you  about  him,  and  if  you'll  let 
him  fill  'em  up  ag'in — for  it's  one  of  the  vartues 
of  hot  rum  that  the  more  you  drinks  the  thirstier 
you  gits — I'll  reel  you  the  yarn  right  off. 

"  Old  Wiggins  had  been  all  his  life  into  the 
Liverpool  trade  and  had  got  well  fixed,  so  far  as 
cash  were  consarned  ;  and  so  when  he  came  for  to 


142  HOW  OLD   WIGGINS  WORE    SHIP. 

be  seventy  or  seventy-two  years  old  he  were  per- 
suaded for  to  knock  off  for  a  full  due  and  spend  the 
balance  of  his  life  ashore.  Goin'  up  to  some  place 
in  Connecticut,  he  buys  hisself  a  place  there  and 
settles  down.  Well,  for  a  time  he  were  all  right, 
a-fixin'  up  his  house,  a-buildin'  new  barns  and 
hen-coops  and  fences  and  the  like,  and  I've  heerd 
tell  that  the  house  where  he  kep'  his  pigs  were 
better  than  any  dwellin'-house  in  that  region,  and 
the  whole  place  were  the  wonder  of  the  country 
roundabout  ;  but  arter  he  had  fixed  his  house  all 
up  like  a  ship,  with  little  staterooms  all  through 
the  upper  part  of  it,  and  had  got  everythin'  inside 
and  out  in  shipshape  order,  and  there  weren't 
nothin'  else  he  could  think  of  for  to  do,  he  gits 
terribly  homesick  and  discontented,  and  times 
when  he'd  come  to  the  city  for  to  collect  his  sheer 
of  the  profits  of  ships  as  he  had  a  interest  in,  he'd 
sit  for  hours  on  the  wharf  a-watchin'  the  vessels 
on  the  river,  and  it  were  like  drawin'  teeth  for  to 
git  him  to  leave  and  go  up  to  his  home.  His  eyes 
had  giv'  out  sometime  afore  he  quit  the  sea,  and 
his  legs  was  shaky,  so  as  he  had  to  walk  with  a 
settin'  pole,  and  his  hand  were  tremblin'  and  un- 
steady ;  but  aloft  he  were  still  all  right,  and  his 
head  were  as  clear  as  a  bell. 

"  Arter  bein'  ashore  a  matter  of  seven  year,  he 
comes  to  town  one  day  to  see  a  ship  off  what  he 
had  been  in  afore  he  quit,  and  in  which  he  had  a 
half  interest.  The  skipper  of  that  ship,  which  her 
name  were  the  Vesuvius,  he  bein'  called  Perkins, 


HOW  OLD   WIGGINS  WORE   SHIP.  143 

in  comin'  from  the  Custom  House  arter  clearin', 
got  athvvart-hawse  of  a  dray  and  were  knocked 
down,  the  wheels  passin'  over  his  legs  and  breakin' 
of  'em,  and  whatever  do  old  Wiggins  do — the 
home-sickness  bein' 'strong  onto  him — but  says  to 
the  agents,  '  It  are  a  pity  for  to  lose  a  day's  fair 
wind  ;  I'll  go  aboard  and  take  her  out  myself  ; '  and, 
sure  enough,  he  done  it,  never  lettin'  on  to  the 
folks  at  home,  but  leavin'  the  agents  to  tell  'em 
arter  he  were  gone. 

"  Into  that  ship  I  were  shipped,  she  bein'  830 
tons  or  thereabout,  with  three  royal  yards  across, 
and  loaded  with  flour  and  grain,  there  bein'  six- 
teen of  us  afore  the  mast,  with  two  mates,  carpen- 
ter and  cook,  and  steward,  leavin'  on  the  i6th  of 
November,  and,  unless  I'm  mistakened,  in  the  year 
1843. 

"  We  towed  down  to  the  Hook  and  out  over  the 
bar,  and  then  put  the  muslin  on  to  her  with  a  fine 
breeze  from  sou'west,  and  I  supposes  there  weren't 
a  happier  man  in  the  world  than  old  Wiggins  when 
he  discharged  the  pilot  and  steamer  and  took 
charge. 

"  '  I've  giv'  'em  the  slip,'  says  he  to  the  mate. 
'  I've  giv'  'em  the  slip  ;  they  thought  I  were  too 
old  for  to  go  to  sea,  but  I'll  show  'em  thar's  plenty 
of  life  into  me  yet  ;  git  out  all  the  starboard  stun- 
sails  and  see  to  it  that  she's  kep"  a-movin'  night 
and  day,  for  in  sixteen  days  I  expects  to  walk  the 
pierhead  in  Liverpool.'  Well,  sure  enough,  a- 
movin'  she  were  kep',  and  I  never  seen  harder 


144  HOW  OLD   WIGGINS  WORE    SHIT. 

carry  in' s  on  than  I  seen  that  passage  ;  but  we 
never  lost  a  stitch  of  canvas,  'cause  the  old  man 
not  only  knowed  how  to  carry  it,  but  he  knowed 
how  to  take  it  off  of  her  when  it  be  to  come  off, 
and  in  a  gale  of  wind  he'd  *liven  up  wonderful, 
whereas  in  light  weather  he'd  show  his  age.  It 
were  funny  for  to  see  him  takin'  the  sun  and 
tryin'  to  read  her  off,  which  he  weren't  able  for  to 
do,  not-by  no  means. 

"  '  What  d'ye  stand  on  ?'  he'd  say  to  the  mate 
arter  screwin'  his  eye  to  the  glass  and  tryin'  to 
make  it  out  ;  and  when  the  mate  would  tell  him, 
he'd  say,  '  I  believe  that  agrees  with  me  ;  just  take 
a  squint  at  my  instrument  ;  my  eyesight  ain't  just 
as  good  as  it  used  for  to  be,  and  I  don't  quite 
make  it  out.'  Then  the  mate  would  read  him  off 
his  instrument,  and  arter  he'd  made  it  eight  bells 
he'd  go  down  and  work  it  up  and  prick  her  off. 
The  fourteenth  day  out  we  made  the  light  on  Fast- 
net  Rock,  off  Cape  Clear,  and  went  bowlin'  along 
the  coast,  passin'  Tuskar  next  day,  and  swingin' 
her  off  up  channel  and  round  Hollyhead  past  the 
Skerries  and  takin'  a  pilot  off  P'int  Lynas.  It 
were  a  sight  worth  seein'  for  to  watch  the  old  man 
handle  her  in  takin'  a  pilot.  The  wind  were  fresh 
from  west-norwest,  and  we  passed  the  Skerries  with 
all  three  royals  set  and  lower  topmast  and  to'gallan' 
stunsails  on  the  port  side.  As  soon  as  ever  we 
passed  the  rocks  we  kep'  off  for  Lynas,  and  as  soon 
as  the  stunsails  got  by  the  lee  ttiey  was  hauled  in. 
Then  with  the  wind  about  two  p'ints  on  the  star- 


HOW  OLD    WIGGINS  WOKE    SHIP.  145 

board  quarter  we  went  bilin'  along  for  the  boat 
which  we  seen  standin'  off  shore  just  to  the  east'ard 
of  the  P'int.  There  were  a  pretty  bubble  of  a  sea 
on,  and  afore  we  gits  to  him  he  goes  about  standin' 
in  to  the  bay  and  givin'  sheet.  We  follers  along 
arter  him,  goin'  two  feet  to  his  one,  still  car- 
ryin'  all  three  royals,  with  hands  at  halliards 
and  clewlines.  Just  afore  we  gits  to  him  the  old 
man  sings  out,  '  Clew  up  the  royals,  haul  down 
the  flyin'  jib,  haul  up  the  crochick  and  mainsail.' 
By  this  time  we  was  well  under  the  land  and  in 
smooth  water.  Keepin'  his  eye  onto  the  pilot- 
boat,  which  were  a  couple  of  p'ints  onto  our 
weather  bow,  the  old  man  no  sooner  seen  her  come 
to  than  he  sings  out,  '  Hard  up  the  helm  ! '  And 
as  we  swung  off  afore  the  wind  we  runned  up  the 
foresail  and  laid  the  head-yards  square  ;  then 
mannin'  the  port  main  braces  we  let  the  to'gallan' 
yards  run  down  on  the  caps  and  let  her  come  to 
ag'in,  and  so  nicely  had  the  old  man  calculated  the 
distance  that  as  she  come  to  the  wind  she  shot  up 
alongside  of  the  pilot-boat,  stoppin'  just  abreast  of 
her  and  not  over  twenty  foot  away. 

"  '  That  was  well  done,  Mr.  Mate,'  said  the  pilot, 
as  he  come  over  the  side  ;  '  some  of  these  galoots 
makes  us  chase  'em  half  a  day  afore  we  can  board 
'em.  Fill  away  the  head-yards,  put  your  helm  up, 
run  up  the  flyin'  jib,  brail  up  the  spanker  check  in 
the  arter  yards,'  and  as  she  swung  off  he  comes  aft 
to  the  wheel  where  I  was  a-steerin',  and  says,  '  Keep 
her  east-sou'east,  my  man  ;  giv'  us  a  chew  of  ter- 


146  HOW   OLD   WIGGINS   WOKE    SHIP. 

backer.'  We  soon  had  the  muslin  piled  onto  her 
ag'in,  and  sure  enough,  as  old  Wiggins  had  said, 
the  sixteenth  day  out  he  walked  the  pierhead  in 
Liverpool. 

"  I  understood  as  old  Wiggins  was  made  a  good 
deal  on  in  Liverpool  as  bein'  the  oldest  skipper 
that  had  ever  come  there,  and  the  Board  of  Trade 
and  what  not  giv'  him  dinners,  and  so  on — which, 
considerin'  his  age,  he  oughtn't  to  have  took — and 
by  other  skippers  at  the  hotel  he  were  much 
honored,  bein'  giv'  the  head  of  the  table  and 
treated  with  great  deference — and  all  this  dinin'  and 
winin'  and  feastin'  weren't  no  good  to  him — and, 
arter  a  stay  of  three  weeks,  when  we  ag'in  went 
down  the  river  with  full  complement  of  passengers 
and  a  good  freight,  he  weren't  not  by  no  means  as 
well  as  when  we  went  in.  We  had,  too,  a  tough 
time  down  channel,  a  stiff  sou'wester,  with  rain 
and  thick  weather,  and  it  told  onto  the  old  man, 
so  that  when  arter  bein'  out  a  week  we  at  last  got 
clear  of  Tuskar  and  had  the  ocean  open,  the  relief 
from  the  strain  fetched  him,  and  he  were  took 
down  sick. 

"  Whether  it  were  to  punish  him  for  comin'  to 
sea  at  his  time  of  life  or  not  I  don't  know  ;  but 
from  this  on  we  did  have  the  devil's  own  weather. 
Gale  after  gale  from  the  west'ard,  shiftin'  constant 
from  sou'west  to  nor' west,  and  tryin'  constant  to 
see  from  which  quarter  it  could  blow  the  hardest. 

"  The  mate  were  a  plucky  and  a  able  young 
feller,  by  the  name  of  Graham,  and  he  kep'  her  a- 


HOW  OLD   WIGGINS   WORE    SHIP.  147 

dancin'  as  well  as  the  old  man  would  have  done. 
Constant  she  had  everythin'  put  to  her  that  she'd 
bear,  and  always  were  she  kep'  on  the  tack  where 
she'd  make  the  most  westin',  and  so  she  struggled 
along  till  we  was  as  far  as  thirty  degrees  west,  we 
bein'  thirty  days  out  and  not  yet  half  way.  Every 
day  we  asked  the  steward  how  old  Wiggins  were 
a-gittin'  on,  and  every  day  he'd  shake  his  head 
and  say  '  no  better  ;'  and  it  come  to  be  under- 
stood, fore  and  aft,  that  it  were  as  much  as  a  toss- 
up  if  the  old  man  ever  smelled  grass  ag'in.  We 
had  a  little  let-up  arter  gittin'  into  the  thirties, 
and  for  a  day  or  so  had  fine  weather  and  a  chance 
to  dry  our  dunnage.  Fine  days,  however,  is  scarce 
in  January  on  that  herrin'  pond — I'll  take  just 
another  ;  mentionin'  herrin' s  makes  me  dry — and 
when  you  gits  'em  they  are  most  always  weather- 
breeders.  I  went  up  on  to  the  main  royal  yard 
when  our  side  com'e  up  at  8  o'clock  one  mornin' 
for  to  sew  on  the  leather  on  the  parral,  and  it 
were  like  a  day  in  May.  Afore  I  got  the  leather 
sewed  on  I  be  to  look  out  for  myself,  'cause  they 
was  goin'  to  clew  up  the  sail,  and  from  that  time 
on  it  breezed  on  from  the  sou'ard,  keepin'  us 
constantly  takin'  the  sail  off  of  her,  till  at  four 
bells  we  was  under  double-reefed  topsails  and 
reefed  courses,  with  jib,  crochick,  and  spanker 
stowed.  We  hammered  away  under  this,  carryin' 
on  very  heavy,  'cause  she  were  headin'  west- 
nor'west,  which  were  a  good  course,  till  eight  bells 
in  the  arternoon  watch,  when  the  sea  gittin'  up  so 


148  HOW  OLD   WIGGINS  WORE   SHIP, 

tremendiously  we  had  to  furl  the  reefed  main-sail 
and  mizzen  topsail  and  close  reef  the  fore  and  main 
topsails. 

"  You'd  think  that  were  snug  enough  for  any 
ship,  now,  wouldn't  you?  and  sartin  it  are;  no 
ship  ever  ought  to  have  less  canvas  than  this,  till 
it  blows  away,  'cause  she's  safer  with  it  onto  her 
than  with  it  off,  the  reefed  foresail  supportin'  the 
yard.  Well,  we'd  had  gales  and  gales,  but  this 
here  gale  beat  anythin'  that  I'd  ever  seen,  and  at 
seven  bells  in  the  first  night  watch,  with  a  tre- 
mendious  surge,  the  weather  leech  rope  of  the  fore- 
sail giv'  way,  and  in  a  jiffy  away  went  the  foreyard 
in  the  slings — the  foresail  and  fore-topsail  goin' 
into  ribbons.  All  hands,  of  course,  was  busy 
for'ard,  tryin'  for  to  git  some  of  this  wreck  stuff 
tranquillized,  when  all  of  a  suddint  from  the  poop 
come  the  old  man's  voice,  full  and  round  and 
clear,  and  not  shrill  and  pipin'  as  we'd  heerd  it 
last,  and  above  all  the  roarin'  of  the  gale  and  the 
din  of  the  slattin'  canvas,  we  heerd  him  shout  : 
'  Stations  for  wearin'  ship.  We  must  git  her  head 
round  to  the  sou'ard,'  he  bawled  in  the  ear  of  the 
mate,  as  Mr.  Graham  struggled  aft  ;  '  the  shift  will 
come  in  less  than  half  a  hour,  and  its  goin'  to  be 
tremendious  ;  if  it  catches  us  aback  it  won't  leave 
a  stick  into  her  ;  but  it  ain't  a-goin'  to  catch  us, 
sir  ;  I've  brungher  through  many  and  many  a  time 
like  this.  I'll  bring  her  through  this  one,  and  then 
you  must  do  the  rest.  Now,  then,'  says  he,  '  stand 
by,  put  your  helm  just  a  few  spokes  a-weather, 


HO  IV   OLD    }YIGGINS   WORE    SHIP.  149 

don't  check  her  at  all  with  the  rudder,  slack  a  foot 
or  two  of  the  lee  braces  and  check  in  to  wind'ard  ; 
keep  your  eye  constant  on  that  sail,  Mr.  Clark  '- 
that  were  the  second  mate — '  and  don't  let  it  shake  ; 
keep  it  good  full  and  give  her  away;  lay  the  crochick 
yard  square,  and  come  up  to  the  main-braces,  all  of 
you.'  And  so,  gently,  as  if  she'd  been  a  sick  child, 
he  coaxed  her  to  go  off,  and  she  begin  to  gather 
way.  As  soon  as  she  done  so  the  helm  were  put 
hard  up,  and  the  main-yard  rounded  in,  just 
keepin'  the  topsail  alift,  but  not  permittin'  it  to 
shake.  As  she  went  off  till  she  got  the  sea  on  the 
quarter,  a  mighty  wave  came  a-roilin'  along,  board- 
in'  us  about  the  main  riggin',  floodin'  the  decks 
and  dashin'  out  the  starboard  bulwarks.  The  min- 
nit  we  got  the  wind  onto  the  starboard  quarter  we 
braced  the  mainyard  sharp  up  with  the  port-braces 
and  bowsed  the  weather  ones  as  taut  as  a  harp 
string.  '  Now,  then,'  says  the  old  man,  '  never 
mind  that  trash  for'ard,  let  that  go  ;  git  a  jumper 
on  to  the  main-yard  and  a  preventer  main-topsail 
brace  aloft  ;  lay  aloft  for  your  lives,  and  clap  pre- 
venter gaskets  on  every  thin'  that's  furled  ;  we'll 
have  it  soon  from  the  north' ard  fit  to  take  the 
masts  out  of  her.'  He  were  right.  In  a  short  time 
there  were  a  instant's  lull,  and  then  with  a  roar 
that  were  almost  deafenin'  came  the  cyclone  from 
the  north.  Thanks  to  the  old  man's  sagacity  and 
experience,  howsever,  we  was  a-headin*  sou'- 
southeast  when  it  hit  us,  and  it  struck  us  right  aft. 
"  '  Steady  as  you  go,'  shouts  the  old  man,  and 


150  J/Oir   OLD    \VIGGIXS   WORE    SHIP. 

then,  a  minnit  arter,  as  she  gathered  way,  he  says 
ag'in  to  the  mate,  '  We  must  let  her  come  to,  Mr. 
Graham,  we  can't  run  her  in  the  teeth  of  the  old 
s'utherly  sea  ;  ease  down  the  helm  and  let  her 
smell  of  it.'  It  was  a  powerful  whiff  she  took,  for 
as  she  come  to  and  felt  the  force  of  the  wind,  all 
three  to'gallan'  masts  went  short  off  at  the  cap,  the 
main-topsail  sheets  parted,  and  in  an  instant  there 
wasn't  a  piece  of  the  sail  left  big  enough  for  a 
lady's  handkerchief. 

'  That's  all  it  can  do,'  said  the  old  man  to  the 
mate,  bitterly  ;  '  git  this  trash  on  deck  as  soon  as 
possible,  and  git  her  a-waggin'  once  more  ;  I've 
brung  her  through  it  safe,  and  am  goin'  home,' 
and  with  that  he  dropped  onto  the  poop  as  dead 
as  mutton.  He  had  come  on  deck  bare-headed 
and  with  nothin'  on  but  his  drawers  and  shirt,  just 
as  he  had  laid  in  his  bunk  for  a  fortnight,  and  the 
exposure  had  carried  him  off.  However,  he  knowed 
that  the  shift  were  so  near  nobody  ever  could  tell. 
There  were  no  doubt,  however,  but  that  his  gittin' 
her  weared  round  were  our  salvation.  If  that 
gust  had  a-struck  us  aback  our  masts  would  have 
gone  sartin,  and  it's  a  toss-up  but  what  we'd  a- 
gone  down  starn  fust  afore  she'd  a-backed  round. 
Next  day  we  giv'  old  Wiggins  a  funeral  fit  for  the 
Emperor  of  Rooshy,  and  he  well  desarved  it.  I 
don't  know  as  ever  I  seen  a  prettier  sew-up  than  we 
done  on  him,  wrappin'  him  first  in  the  American 
ensign  and  then  kiverin'  him  with,  brand-new  No  4 
canvas.  Considerin'  the  sails  we'd  lost  and  how 


HOW   OLD    WIGGINS   WORE    SHIP.  151 

much  we  needed  the  canvas,  I  think  he  must  have 
been  satisfied  that  we  done  the  handsome  thing  by 
him.  The  day  was  beautiful  and  clear,  although 
the  wind  still  blowed  a  gale.  We  hadn't  been 
able  to  do  much  with  the  wreck  stuff,  except  git 
lashin's  onto  it  for  to  keep  it  from  swingin'  about, 
and  we  hadn't  dared  for  to  try  for  to  send  up 
another  maintopsail.  We  had  set  the  reefed  main- 
sail for  to  steady  her,  and  that  were  all.  The  three 
to'gallan'  masts  was  still  a-hangin'  over  the  side, 
and  the  ribbons  of  the  foresail  and  fore  topsail  was 
still  a-flutterin'  in  the  breeze,  when  at  eight  bells, 
at  midday,  all  hands  was  called  for  to  bury  the 
dead.  Everythin'  that  we  had  in  the  way  of  nice 
clothes  we  had  put  on  for  to  do  honor  to  our  cap- 
tain, and  most  of  us  was  able  to  sport  white  shirts 
and  broadcloth.  We  laid  the  old  man  onto  a 
plank  and  kivered  him  with  the  union  jack,  and 
all  hands  gathered  round  him,  while  Mr.  Graham 
read  the  sarvice.  Everythin'  went  lovely,  and  just 
at  the  proper  time  we  tilted  the  plank,  and  he 
slipped  off  without  a  hitch  of  any  kind.  Arter 
the  mate  finished  the  readin',  he  said,  '  Men, 
there's  a  good  man  gone  arter  a  long  life  of  great 
usefulness.  He  were  a  sailor  and  a  gentleman.  1 
don't  think  as  we  ought  for  to  cry  over  sich  a  man, 
and  I  propose  we  giv'  him  three  cheers  and  God 
bless  him  '  ;  and  heartier  cheers  was  never  giv'  than 
we  giv'  that  day,  arter  which  all  hands  got  din- 
ner.' ' 


MAS  HAS  COME." 

BY  LEONARD  KIP. 


IT  was  called  Beacon  Ledge  fully  fifty  years  be- 
fore the  present  lighthouse  had  been  built 
upon  it.  For  it  was'  said  that  long  ago,  when 
wrecking  was  a  profitable  trade  along  the  coast, 
and  goodly  vessels  were  frequently,  by  false  lights, 
decoyed  to  their  destruction,  there  was  no  more  fa- 
vorable point  for  the  exercise  of  that  systematic 
villainy  than  this  rocky,  high-lifted  bluff.  Project- 
ing three  or  four  hundred  feet  into  the  sea,  with  a 
gradually  curved,  sweeping  line,  it  formed,  to  be 
sure,  upon  the  one  side,  a  limited  anchorage — safe 
enough  for  those  who  knew  it ;  but,  upon  the  other 
side,  it  looked  upon  a  waste  of  shoal,  dotted,  here 
and  there,  at  lowest  tide,  with  craggy  breakers,  and, 
at  high  water,  smooth,  smiling,  and  deceitful,  with 
the  covered  dangers.  Here,  then,  upon  certain  dark, 
and  stormy  nights,  the  flaming  beacon  of  destruc- 

•*•  Ovtrland  Monthly,  January,  1870. 


MAS  HAS  COME."  153 


tion  would  glow  brightly  against  the  black  sky,  and 
wildly  lighten  up  the  cruel  faces  of  those  who  stood 
by  and  piled  on  the  fagots,  while  gazing  eagerly 
out  to  sea  to  mark  the  effect  of  their  evil  machina- 
tions. Nor  was  it  until  some  thirty  years  ago  that 
the  gangs  of  wretches  were  thoroughly  broken  up, 
and  this,  their  favorite  vantage-ground,  wrested 
from  them,  and  the  tall,  white  lighthouse  there  se- 
curely founded — maintaining  in  mercy  what  had 
before  been  held  as  a  blighting  curse;  lifting  itself, 
like  a  nation's  warning  finger,  and  with  its  calm, 
serene  glow,  pointing  out  the  path  of  safety.  Then, 
in  the  mouths  of  all  the  surrounding  inhabitants, 
Beacon  Ledge  became  known  as  Beacon  Ledge 
Beacon,  and  so  kept  its  name,  in  spite  of  tautologi- 
cal criticism,  or  of  different  and  more  formal  christ- 
ening, by  Government  authority. 

Still,  there  hung  around  the  place  the  memories 
or  traditions  of  past  violence,  shipwreck,  and  mur- 
der— partly  true,  perhaps,  but,  doubtless,  generally 
false,  having  only  a  few  grains  of  fact  or  probabil- 
ity mingled  with  all  kinds  of  distorted  fictions — 
the  deeds  of  pirates  being  supplemented  to  those  of 
mere  wreckers  ;  the  imaginations  of  fishermen  along 
the  coast  ever  inventing  plenteous  horrors,  and  wild 
tales  of  buccaneering  rovers,  originally  written  for 
other  localities,  being  now  wilfully  adopted  and 
here  located,  until,  at  last,  there  was  hardly  a 
known  crime  which  could  not  find  its  origin  or 
counterpart  at  Beacon  Ledge,  and  the  whole  neigh- 
boring shore  became  a  melancholy  storehouse  of 


154  — MAS  HAS  COME:' 

terrors,  disaster,  and  distress.  These  tales  being 
discovered  to  be  very  pleasing  to  most  strangers, 
were  carefully  cultivated  and  enlarged  upon  by 
each  interested  denizen  of  the  place  ;  and  to  me, 
also,  for  awhile,  they  had  a  peculiar  charm.  I  sel- 
dom grew  tired  of  hearing  some  grizzled,  tar-in- 
crusted  fisherman  reel  off  his  tissue  of  improbable 
abominations.  For  awhile,  I  say,  since  there  came, 
at  last,  a  day  when  I  cared  no  longer  for  such 
bloody  traditions,  forgot  the  shadowy  horrors  that 
flitted  about  the  spot,  and  only  thought  and  cared 
for  it  as  the  place  where  I  had  met  and  loved  dear 
little  Jessie  Barkstead. 

She  was  the  only  child  of  the  lighthouse  keeper. 
In  a  worldly  point  of  view,  therefore,  was  it  wisely 
done  that  I  should  have  set  my  affections  upon  her? 
Possibly  not  ;  and  it  is  likely  that,  had  I  known  the 
weakness  of  my  mind,  I  would  have  shunned  the  dan- 
ger from  the  very  first.  But  I  was  gay  and  reckless 
in  my  poor  self-complacency  and  deceitful  as- 
surance of  inner  strength  ;  and  long  before  I  had 
fairly  realized  how  rapidly  I  was  drifting,  I 
found  myself  whirling  df>wn  the  swift  current, 
and  was  lost.  .Nor  was  it  a  marvel  that  this  should 
have  so  happened.  To  one  who  sits  aloof  in  his 
unromantic,  distant  home,  it  is  an  easy  thing,  in- 
deed, to  moralize  about  matters  of  inferior  station 
and  mesalliance  j  but  I  believe  that  few  could  have 
seen  little  Jessie,  as  she  first  appeared  to  me,  and 
not  have  felt  some  secret  inclination  to  give  way 
before  those  subtile  charms  of  beauty  and  man- 


MAS  HAS  COME"  155 


ner  which  invested  her.  Moreover,  let  it  here  be 
mentioned  that  she  was  not  at  all  of  humble  birth 
or  education.  Old  Barkstead  was  himself  a  gentle- 
man by  culture  and  station,  and  had  once  been  the 
master  of  a  gallant  ship.  In  that  important  position 
he  had  been  for  many  years  a  pleasant  and  popular 
officer;  but  at  length,  in  an  evil  day,  through  some 
temporary  weakness  or  neglect,  he  had  lost  his 
charge,  and  almost  ruined  his  employers.  The 
world— with  what  degree  of  truth  cannot  now  be 
told — had  charged  the  loss  upon  intoxication.  A 
storm  of  obloquy  and  reproach  arose.  The  man, 
bowed  down  with  self-abasement  and  sensitiveness, 
had  yielded  to  the  blast,  and  attempted  no  defence ; 
and,  after  awhile,  obtaining,  through  some  friendly 
influence,  the  custody  of  the  Beacon  Light,  he  had 
fled,  with  his  child,  to  that  obscurity,  leaving  no 
trace  behind  him,  and  caring  only  to  pass  the  rest  of 
his  life  in  the  quiet  of  the  world's  forgetfulness. 

I  was  myself  the  occasional  tenant  of  a  lighthouse, 
for,  during  a  few  weeks  of  the  summer,  I  had  been 
visiting  the  Penguin  Light,  some  four  or  five  miles 
distant  up  the  coast.  It  was  a  tall  and  far-reaching 
structure,  standing  upon  a  jutting  point  of  rock — 
almost  the  duplicate  of  the  Beacon  Ledge ;  the  two 
lights  glimmering  at  each  other  across  the  little  bay 
between,  and  only  to  be  distinguished  apart  at 
night  by  the  different  periods  of  their  revolutions. 
Penguin  Light  was  in  the  keeping  of  old  Barry 
Somers,  a  long-known  and  valued  sailor-friend  of 
mine,  who,  in  past  days,  had  taught  me  to  swim, 


156  " MAS  HAS  COME." 

and  sail  a  boat,  and  now  seemed  to  regard  his  office 
more  for  the  opportunity  it  gave  of  entertaining  me 
than  for  its  actual  salaried  value.  Thither,  there- 
fore, I  would  often  repair  during  the  summer 
months,  avoiding  the  usual  crowded  haunts,  and( 
giving  preference  to  old  Barry's  pleasant  talk  and 
my  solitary  rambles  along  the  shore;  occasionally 
running  out  to  sea,  that  I  might  speak  friendly  pi- 
lots cruising  in  the  distance  ;  and  now  and  then,  by 
way  of  change  and  innocent  attempt  at  usefulness, 
taking  my  turn  at  keeping  up  and  watching  over 
the  safety  of  the  lantern-lamps. 

It  was  during  one  of  my  lonely  wanderings  along 
the  beach,  when,  with  gun  in  hand,  I  made  feeble 
and  unsuccessful  attempts  against  the  lives  of  the 
merry  little  sand-pipers,  that  I  first  saw  Jessie. 
She  sat  upon  a  rock,  and  was  gazing  out  at  sea. 
In  her  hand  was  a  book,  which  she  was  not  reading 
• — who,  indeed,  could  read  collectedly,  with  that 
fresh  breeze  lifting  such  a  pleasant  array  of  dancing 
white-caps,  and  rolling  inward  those  strong  bodies 
of  surf,  which  broke  upon  the  shore  with  the  ring 
of  sportive  Titans  ?  Her  handkerchief  had  fallen 
off  her  head,  and  her  curls  were  flying  wantonly  in 
the  breeze.  I  did  not,  for  the  moment,  dream  that 
she  had  any  connection  with  the  lighthouse,  but 
rather  that  she  was  a  chance  city  visitor  at  some  in- 
land country-house;  and  so  I  passed  on,  not  ventur- 
ing to  speak  with  her.  So,  also,  the  next  day,  and  the 
next— finding  her  always  there  when  I  passed,  as 
though  that  particular  hollow  in  the  rock  was  her 


" — MAS  HAS  COME:'  157 

own  especial,  allotted  refuge-place.  At  last,  gaining 
courage  from  those  frequent  meetings,  and,  perhaps, 
from  the  half  smile  with  which  she  began  to  greet 
my  coming,  I  addressed  her  ;  and  so  the  few  words 
of  salutation  gradually  lengthened  into  conversa- 
tion, and,  before  we  were  well  conscious  of  the  fact, 
had  ripened  into  terms  of  intimacy. 

How  swiftly  such  matters  sometimes  proceed, 
when  removed  from  the  stiffness  and  ceremony  of 
city  life  !  A  week  only  had  passed,  and  I  began  to 
find  that  all  my  walks  led  in  that  one  direction. 
Jessie  was  always  at  her  place,  with  the  uncom- 
pleted book  in  her  hands  ;  and  I,  going  no  farther, 
would  seat  myself  beside  her,  throw  down  my  use- 
less gun,  let  the  poor  sand-pipers  go  undismayed, 
and  so  prepare  for  the  comfortable,  pleasant  conver- 
sation of  the  morning.  It  was  no  unattractive  pas- 
time, indeed,  to  dispose  the  dry  sea-weed  for  her 
seat  ;  and  then,  placing  my  head  upon  another  pile, 
remain  half  reclined  at  her  feet,  listening  to  her 
lively  talk,  and  pretending  to  look  out  upon  the 
blue  waves,  when,  all  the  while,  I  was  stealthily 
gazing  into  the  deeper  blue  of  her  eyes.  Nor, 
when  I  heard  her  story — or,  so  much  of  it  as  at  first 
she  deigned  to  tell  me — did  I  hold  her  in  less  re- 
spect. The  daughter  of  the  lighthouse,  indeed  ! 
Why,  truly,  this  should  matter  nothing  at  all  to  me. 
What  interest  could  I  have  in  her  past  or  present 
associations,  or  how  could  they,  in  any  way, detract 
from  her  own  native  grace  and  loveliness  ?  Were 
her  eyes  less  bright,  or  was  her  conversation  less 


158  " MAS  HAS  COME." 

cheery,  or  were  her  attitudes  less  picturesque  and 
pleasing,  because  old  Captain  Barkstead,  instead  of 
still  sailing  a  fleet  merchantman,  now  mopingly 
cleaned  his  reflectors,  and,  when  strangers  came, 
hid  himself  in  the  lantern?  Moreover,  had  she 
not  brought  with  her  from  her  former  home,  wher- 
ever that  might  be,  a  wit,  and  intellect,  and  intelli- 
gence which  might  adorn  any  position  ?  What 
more  could  be  needful  in  promotion  of  a  quiet  sea- 
side flirtation  ?  In  a  week  or  ten  days  I  should  go 
away,  and  no  longer  see  her.  I  should  carry  off 
with  me  the  memories  of  a  very  pleasant  face,  that 
had  always  brightened  up  whenever  I  came  near; 
and  then,  as,  after  awhile,  new  forms  and  scenes 
came  between,  I  would,  of  course,  forget  her.  For 
a  time,  she  might  possibly  look  out  longingly  after 
my  return,  and,  finding  that  I  did  not  come  back, 
might — well,  not  exactly  lose  memory  of  me,  I 
hoped.  It  was  to  be  desired,  perhaps,  that  a  few 
thoughts  of  me  would  always  tinge  her  future  life, 
I  argued  with  something  of  man's  selfishness.  I 
would  not,  indeed,  that  she  should  make  herself 
miserable  about  me  ;  but  if,  when  her  face  had  faded 
from  my  thoughts,  some  little  record  of  myself 
should  pleasantly  remain  with  her,  and  now  and 
then  bring  a  transitory  pang  of  musing  regret,  who 
should  say  nay  ? 

Therefore,  in  time,  I  went  away.  I  did  not  steal 
off  without  farewell.  That  would  have  been 
but  sorry  recompense  for  the  many  cheery  hours 
she  had  given  me.  But,  taking  her  hand  in  mine, 


MAS  HAS   COME."  159 


I  gave  to  her  my  heartfelt  thanks  for  all  the  pleas- 
ant past,  and  my  cordial  wishes  for  the  future.  I 
did  not  know  that  I  should  ever  meet  her  again,  I 
said.  I  hoped,  however,  that  she  would  not  too 
soon  forget  me.  It  was  in  my  heart  to  utter  more 
tender  and  sentimental  words  than  I  had  any  right 
to  use,  but  I  repressed  the  inclination.  I  cherished, 
too  a  secret  hope  that  she  would  show  some  sorrow 
for  my  departure  ;  but,  if  she  felt  any  at  all,  she  did 
not  allow  her  expression,  or  her  color,  to  betray 
her.  With  quiet  self-possession,  yet  with  a  certain 
interest,  too — as  when  one  gives  up  a  pleasant,  val- 
ued friend — she  bade  me  adieu  ;  and  so,  lifting 
from  her  feet  the  ever-harmless  gun,  I  passed  away, 
round  the  border  of  the  little  bay,  and  returned  to 
the  city. 

There,  however,  somewhat  to  my  surprise,  I 
failed  to  forget  her;  and  wherever  I  went,  the 
image  of  that  light,  graceful  form,  seated  upon 
the  rock,  began  to  obtrude  itself  upon  my  thoughts. 
Of  course,  it  was  only  a  fleeting  impression,  I  rea- 
soned with  myself,  and  would  soon  disappear  again, 
as  newer  scenes  and  faces  forced  themselves  upon 
me ;  and  I  plunged  rather  more  wildly  than  usual 
into  society.  But  the  proposed  remedy  did  not 
have  its  due  effect.  In  fact,  it  happened  that  the 
routine  of  gayety  and  formality  seemed,  by  con- 
trast, to  aid  the  former  impressions,  making  them 
seem  more  real  and  life-like  than  ever.  It  could 
not  be  that  I  was  falling  in  love !  But  yet  I  could 
not  fail  to  confess  a  strange  interest  ;  and,  while 


160  " MAS  HAS   COME." 

knowing  that  I  was  in  danger,  was  content  to  let 
myself  drift  whither  the  current  might  carry  me. 

"  I  will  see  her  once  more.  There  was  some- 
thing I  forgot  to  tell  her  when  we  parted  last,"  I 
said  to  myself,  trying  in  vain  to  establish  and 
believe  in  a  transparent  self-deceit.  "  It  was  about 
a  book,  or  something.  It  weighs  upon  my  mind 
that  she  should  deem  me  neglectful  of  her  wishes. 
Once  more,  therefore,  and  then — " 

"  Where  away,  so  late  in  the  autumn  ?"  inquired 
a  friend,  who  saw  me  starting  out. 

"  Down  the  bay,  blue-fishing  !"  I  exclaimed. 
"  Just  the  real  time  for  it." 

"  Ah  ?  Well,  good-by,  then  !  Rather  too  cold 
sport  for  me,  though  !" 

Therefore,  I  saw  Jessie  again — and  yet  again 
after  that.  Why  should  I  not  confess  it  ? — or, 
after  what  I  have  already  told,  what  is  there  left 
for  me  to  confess,  at  all  ?  For  now,  at  last,  I 
began  to  acknowledge  to  myself  that  it  was  not 
mere  friendship  or  esteem  I  felt,  but,  rather,  the 
more  overpowering  passion  of  real  love.  Gone, 
like  a  thin  veil  of  vapor,  were  all  my  sophistries 
about  a  limited  Platonic  interest  ;  my  dread  of 
incongruous  association  ;  my  resolves  against  pos- 
sible rashnesses  ;  my  fear  of  the  world  or  its  sense- 
less gossip  ;  my  prudence,  or  my  self-restraint  ! 
These  all  seemed  to  vanish  in  a  day  ;  and,  yielding 
myself,  slavishly,  a  willing  captive  to  bright  eyes 
and  silvery  tones,  upon  one  fine  morning  I  passed 
the  Rubicon  of  safety,  and  offered  her  my  hand 


"  —  MAS  HAS  COME:'  161 

and  heart.  But,  to  my  sore  dismay,  she  only 
softly  shook  her  head. 

"  You  do  not  love  me,  then  ?"  I  murmured.  I 
spoke  not  merely  with  sorrow  and  disappointment, 
but  with  something  of  wounded  pride  —  feeling 
mortified  that  she  had  not  at  once  accepted  my 
devotion.  Certainly,  it  had  seemed  to  me,  all  along, 
that  I  was  not  disagreeable  to  her  ;  and  there  was 
no  doubt  that  in  her  manner,  at  least,  she  had 
always  cordially  welcomed  my  approach,  and 
taken  pleasure  in  my  company. 

"  I  do  not  know — I  hardly  yet  can  tell  !"  she 
faintly  said,  drawing  her  hand  from  mine.  "  To 
me,  you  are  my  best  and  dearest  friend  ;  perhaps, 
the  only  one  whom  I  can  really  call  my  friend.  I 
know  how  glad  I  always  feel  when  you  come 
hither  ;  how  lonely  I  am  while  you  stay  away. 
But  this  I  do  not  think  is  love — the  real,  true  love 
which  I  should  wish  to  feel." 

"  But  can  it  never  be  ?"  I  pleaded. 

"  How  can  I  tell  ?  It  might  come  to  that,  at 
last  ;  and  yet — "  She  ceased,  and  there  came  over 
her  face  a  strange,  dead  look  at  the  sea  before  her 
— a  straining  gaze,  as  though  she  would  fix  her 
eyes  far  beyond,  in  another  hemisphere,  oblivious 
of  the  present. 

"  Yet  tell  me,  Jessie,  have  I  a  rival  ?  This,  at 
least,  you  might  let  me  know.  I  will  not  go 
further,  nor  will  I  ask  his  name." 

For  a  moment  she  did  not  answer  :  still  sitting, 
with  that  strange,  rapt,  straining  gaze,  and  with 


162  "  —  MAS  HAS  COME:' 

an  unconscious,  mechanical  motion,  rolling  the 
little  sand  pebbles  down  the  side  of  the  rock. 

"There  was  one,"  she  said,  at  length.  "I 
hardly  know  how  to  tell  you  about  it.  I  believe 
that  I  cared  for  him,  and  yet  I  never  told  him  so  ; 
nor  did  he  ever  tell  me  that  he  loved  or  cared  for 
me,  and  yet,  at  the  time,  I  thought  that  he  did. 
It  was  some  time  ago — a  very  long  time,  it  often 
seems  to  me  ;  nor  do  I  suppose  that  he  and  I 
will  ever  meet  again.  And  now  you  know  almost 
as  much  about  it  as  I  do  myself,"  she  continued, 
turning  more  fully  toward  me.  "  Or  what  more 
can  I  say  ?  There  was  no  pledge  given  on  either 
side — no  uttered  words — and,  of  course,  it  has  all 
gone  by.  But  now  and  then,  when  I  think  about 
it,  I  feel  regret  ;  and  it  seems  to  me  as  though  it 
were  a  different  and  stronger  feeling  than  that 
which  I  have  for  you.  Whether  I  am  mistaken  in 
my  feelings,  or  how  or  what  I  really  think,  perhaps 
I  cannot  well  tell  ;  I  am  only  a  simple  girl,  after 
all,  and  know  so  very  little  about  love,  or  what 
love  truly  is." 

"  Yet,  Jessie  dear,"  I  pleaded,  "  if  you  look 
upon  that  old  matter  as  buried  and  gone — which, 
doubtless,  it  must  be — why  think  longer  about  it, 
instead  of  turning  to  the  new  and  truer  affection 
which  now  I  offer  you  ?  Believe  me,  you  are 
letting  your  mind  dwell  merely  upon  a  dream  of 
the  past — one  of  those  vain  fancies  of  girlhood, 
which,  though  for  the  time  they  may  control  the 
mind,  have  no  real,  vital  activity  or  force." 


" MAS  HAS  COME."  163 

HV 

"  It  may  be  so,"  she  said,  in  a  sort  of  saddened, 
half- regretful  tone.  "  Indeed,  it  must  be  so  ;  and 
it  might  be  that  when  the  influence  has  passed 
away,  I  may  find  that  I  have  cared  for  you  better 
than  I  have  imagined.  I  know  that,  even  now, 
you  seem  dear  to  me  as  a  friend,  and  that  you  are 
kind  to  me,  making  me  always  happy  at  your 
coming  ;  yet,  at  the  same  time,  I  think  that  there 
is  something  wanting  in  it  all — something  which  is 
not  love.  You  see  that  I  am  very  plain  with  you. 
TBetter,  then,  to  leave  me  ;  is  it  not  so  ?  For  I  can- 
not now  give  you  my  heart  ;  nor  do  I  know 
whether,  in  the  future,  I  can  better  do  so  ;  and  it  is 
not  right  that  I  should  keep  you  at  my  side,  hoping 
or  expecting  what,  after  all,  may  never  come." 

"  Nay,  I  will  not  leave  you  for  all  that,  my 
Jessie,"  I  said,  impulsively.  "  I  will  still  remain 
at  your  side,  and  trust  even  to  the  mere  chance 
that,  at  some  future  period,  you  may  relent." 

Therefore,  dropping  the  subject  for  that  time, 
I  remained,  and  sought,  by  new  kindnesses  and 
attentions,  to  win  some  final  increase  of  her  favor 
toward  me,  but  feeling,  at  the  same  time,  a  little 
sore  and  angry  with  myself.  For,  how  wretchedly 
was  I  now  maintaining  that  proper  independence 
of  spirit,  which  I  had  always  insisted  even  the  most 
blinded  and  devoted  of  lovers  should  feel'!  Had 
it  not  been  my  cherished  theory  that  no  man 
should  surrender  his  freedom  of  heart  without 
obtaining  in  return  the  utmost,  unlimited,  and 
unselfish  devotion  ?  Yet,  here  I  was  giving  up  my 


1 64  -  MA  S  II A  S   COME. ' ' 

whole  soul  to  a  blind  passion,  rendered  more  and 
more  absorbing,  doubtless,  by  the  opposition  I 
experienced,  and  for  response  I  found  myself 
willing  to  be  content  with  even  the  cinders  of  a 
former  and  only  half-dead  affection  ;  trusting,  as 
so  many  men  have  vainly  trusted,  that  by  earnest 
care  and  assiduity,  I  might,  at  last,  re-illume  the 
fading  spark,  and  make  its  new  brightness  glow  for 
me. 

So  passed  the  autumn,  during  which  I  made  fre- 
quent journeys  between  coast  and  city  ;  striving, 
at  times,  with  the  cares  of  business  to  drive  her 
image  from  my  mind,  and  finding  myself  con- 
tinually drawn  back  again  to  that  quiet  nook 
which,  gifted  with  her  presence,  had  become  to  me 
the  brightest  and  only  happy  spot  on  earth.  -These 
frequent  departures,  so  contrary  to  my  usual  habit, 
soon  began  to  excite  the  inquiries  and  surmises  of 
my  friends.  Fishing  and  shooting  protracted  into 
the  season  so  far  as  almost  to  touch  the  edge  of  the 
winter,  no  longer  served  as  satisfactory  excuses  for 
my  absences  ;  and  there  were  some  among  my 
friends,  who,  in  their  speculations,  came  very  near 
the  truth,  and  hinted  suspicions  of  some  rustic  pas- 
sion. But  still,  turning  off  their  insinuations  with 
a  laugh,  I  kept  my  secret — holding  it  the  more 
carefully  and  earnestly,  as  I  now  began  to  see  hope 
dawning  for  rne  in  the  future. 

For  now,  at  last,  it  seemed  as  if  I  was  about  to 
prosper  in  my  suit.  Each  time  that  I  came,  Jessie 
appeared  yet  more  pleased  to  see  me — more  willing 


" MAS  HAS   COME."  165 

to  give  me  that  attractive  confidence  which  can 
only  exist  in  full  perfection  between  acknowledged 
lovers  ;  less  disposed  to  analyze  her  mind's  emo- 
tion with  any  critical  severity,  or  speculate 
whether  this  or  that  feeling  had,  or  had  not,  passed 
the  line  between  friendship  and  love;  more  ready, 
at  times,  to  surrender  the  struggle  and  self-exam- 
ination, confess  herself  vanquished,  and  yield  up 
her  whole  heart  to  my  keeping.  But  not  quite  yet. 

"  A  little  longer,"  she  pleaded.  "Let  me  feel 
somewhat  more  sure  of  myself  before — " 

"  And  how  much  longer,  then,  Jessie  ?" 

"  Till  Christmas,  George.  When  Christmas 
comes,  I  will  either  be  all  your  own,  or  will  send 
you  away  forever.  Will  not  that  do  ?" 

"  It  must,  perforce,  if  I  cannot  gain  better 
terms,"  I  answered  ;  and  I  returned  once  more  to 
my  city  life.  It  was  my  fixed  intention  to  remain 
there  resolutely  until  the  Christmas  morning  itself 
had  come  ;  but  at  last,  unable  to  maintain  the  sus- 
pense, I  stole  back  to  the  beach  once  more.  It  was 
now  only  two  days  from  the  time.  The  air  was 
colder,  of  course,  so  that  Jessie  no  longer  took  her 
place  outside  upon  the  rock  ;  but  we  could  sit 
and  talk  in  the  shelter  of  the  lighthouse  door,  un- 
disturbed by  old  Barkstead,  who  usually  fretted 
and  moped  out  of  sight,  about  half  way  up  the 
shaft. 

"  Only  two  days  more,  dear  Jessie,"  I  said, 
"  and  then —  Will  it  be  well  with  me,  do  you 
think  ?" 


1 66  " MAS  HAS   COME" 

"  I  think — I  begin  to  think  it  will  be  well,"  she 
said,  looking  away. 

"  Then,  if  so  you  think,  why  should  you  longer 
delay  your  choice  ?"  I  pleaded. 

"  Nay,  George,  it  is  only  two  days  more.  Let 
it,  then,  remain  as  first  we  said,  and  we  shall  be 
the  better  satisfied  at  having  held  out  to  the  proper 
end." 

Gaining  nothing  more  from  her,  but  feeling,  in 
my  own  mind,  well  assured  of  ultimate  success,  I 
prepared  to  depart.  Not  to  return  to  the  city, 
indeed,  for  that  would  scarcely  be  worth  while  for 
such  a  little  interval — but  to  the  Penguin  Light, 
where  Barry  Somers,  as  usual,  had  a  place  ready 
for  me.  But,  as  I  was  leaving,  a  sudden  idea 
struck  me — a  wild,  foolish  fancy,  it  might  be— yet, 
coming,  as  it  did,  with  a  certain  investiture  of 
originality,  it  fastened  itself  firmly  and  tenaciously 
upon  me,  and  with  animation  I  returned  ujpon  my 
steps. 

"  Listen,  dear  Jessie  !"  I  said.  "  Until  Christ- 
mas morning,  therefore,  I  will  not  see  you  again, 
for  ]  do  not  wish  thus  vainly  to  renew  my  plead- 
ings, and  it  will  be  pleasanter  to  know  that  when 
I  meet  you  once  more,  it  will  be  with  sweet  confes- 
sion on  your  lips,  and  the  permission  to  look  upon 
you  thenceforward  as  my  own.  But  still,  while 
we  are  thus  separated,  can  we  not  commune 
together  ?" 

"  How,  George  ?" 

"  With  the  lights,  dear  Jessie.     See  here,  now  .' 


" MAS  HAS   COME."  167 

Mark  how  easily  we  can  arrange  our  signalling,  so 
that,  across  the  intervening  miles,  we  can  flash  our 
secret  intelligence,  and  no  one  but  ourselves  be  the 
wiser  !  Look  ! — I  will  now  write  you  out  some 
signs,  and  with  them,  at  night,  we  will  hold  our 
intercourse.  This  very  evening  I  will  control  the 
lamps  at  Penguin  Light,  and  you  shall  read  what  I 
will  therewith  tell  you.  To-morrow  you  will  an- 
swer me  from  here  ;  and  I,  in  turn,  will  decipher 
your  sweet  words.  Will  not  that  be  a  rare,  as 
well  as  pleasant  correspondence  ?" 

At  the  suggestion,  her  eyes  brightened  up  with 
animated  excitement,  and  at  once  she  prepared 
to  second  my  plan.  How,  indeed,  could  a 
young  girl  help  approving  of  such  a  novel 
conception  ?  To  talk  with  beacon-lights  across 
five  miles  of  foaming,  heaving  waters,  when  all 
around  was  dark  and  dreary  ! — to  flash  from  one 
sympathetic  heart  to  another  the  glowing  sig- 
nals of  intelligence  comprehended  by  no  other 
persons  !  —  would  not  that  be  an  achievement 
which  would  not  only  give  pleasure  in  the  actual 
present  performance  of  it,  but  also  in  the 
recollection  of  it  throughout  future  years  ?  So, 
sitting  down  again,  she  eagerly  listened  to  me, 
while  I,  drawing  a  paper  from  my  pocket,  noted 
down  the  requisite  tokens,  something  after  the 
usual  signs  employed  in  ordinary  telegraphy — 
short  and  simple — and  left  them  in  her  possession. 
I  saw  at  once  that  she  comprehended  the  principle  ; 
so,  feeling  no  doubt  that  she  would  well  perform 


168  " MAS  HAS   COME." 

her  part,  I  departed,  reading,  in  her  pleased  con- 
sciousness of  sharing  that  novel  secret  with  me, 
such  probable  indications  of  affection,  that,  for  the 
moment,  I  could  scarcely  resist  once  more  throw- 
ing myself  upon  her  pity,  and  asking  instant  assur- 
ance of  my  happiness. 

But  I  forbore.  Were  I  now  to  win  her,  in  anti- 
cipation of  that  predetermined  Christmas-day, 
might  it  not  take  something  from  the  zest  of  the 
coming  midnight  correspondence  ? 

So,  controlling  myself,  I  returned  to  Penguin 
Light.  I  had  been  a  little  troubled  with  the  idea 
that,  perhaps,  I  might  not  be  able  to  manage  the 
matter,  after  all  ;  but,  almost  to  my  joy,  I  found 
old  Barry  complaining  of  his  rheumatism,  hobbling 
about,  and  looking  wrathfully  up  the  winding 
stairs,  in  surly  deprecation  of  his  approaching 
ascent.  Upon  which  I  seized  the  favorable  oppor- 
tunity, and,  while  relieving  him,  forwarded  my 
own  views. 

"  Let  it  alone  for  this  night,  Barry.  Do  you 
stay  down  here  and  make  yourself  comfortable, 
and  I  will  keep  watch  in  the  lantern,  and  tend  the 
lights." 

"  And  can  you  keep  awake,  Georgy,  my  boy,  do 
you  think  ?" 

"  Of  course  I  can,  Barry." 

Whereupon,  for  sole  answer,  Barry  stumped 
away  into  the  closet  below — which  he  called  his 
room — laid  himself  carefully  away  upon  his  old 
blankets,  and  I  mounted  to  the  lantern.  There — 


"  —  MAS  HAS  COME:'  169 

the  hour  of  sundown  having  come — I  lighted  the 
lamps,  and  awaited  my  time.  That  was  still  some 
hours  off  ;  I  was  to  do  nothing  until  midnight. 
Meanwhile,  I  laid  myself  down  to  take  a  nap.  I 
had  promised  watchfulness,  but  it  was  hardly 
necessary  in  the  beginning  of  the  night.  The 
wicks  were  then  fresh,  and  it  was  not  likely  that 
any  accident  could  happen.  It  was  only  toward 
the  end  of  the  night,  when  the  wicks  might  become 
incrusted  or  the  reflectors  dimmed,  that  especial 
care  was  needed. 

I  awoke  again  about  midnight,  the  hour  ap- 
pointed for  the  commencement  of  my  feat.  The 
sky  had  clouded  over,  and  not  a  star  was  lo  be 
seen.  All  the  better,  indeed,  for  the  experiment  ; 
for  now  there  was  no  light  to  be  seen  in  any  direc- 
tion, except  where  down  the  coast  glimmered  the 
Beacon  Ledge  Beacon — now  faintly  coming  around 
the  side,  then  glowing  for  a  second  like  the  mouth 
of  a  distant  furnace,  as  its  full  focus  of  reflectors 
was  pointed  directly  at  me,  then  fading  away,  and 
so,  for  an  instant,  entirely  disappearing,  as  it 
turned  slowly  toward  the  south.  With  the  thick 
bank  of  clouds  had  come  a  cold  wind  from  the 
north,  premonitory  of  an  approaching  storm, 
though  it  might  be  days  before  it  reached  us — the 
only  change  to  be  now  noted  being  the  somewhat 
heavier  swell  of  the  surf,  rolling  up  with  a  dull, 
sullen  roar  along  the  curve  of  the  rock-bound 
shore. 

I  prepared  for  action.     As  I  sat  in  the  lantern, 


l?o  " MA S  HA S  COME. " 

the  great  brazen  frame  of  polished  reflectors  swung 
around,  once  in  each  minute,  within  a  few  inches 
of  the  side.  Beneath  was  the  projecting  handle  of 
a  crank,  or  lever,  by  pressing  upon  which  the 
revolution  could  be  instantly  arrested.  Stooping 
down,  I  could  sit  at  ease,  with  my  head  clear  from 
any  contact  with  the  lamps,  and  in  that  position 
could  have  the  lever-handle  within  easy  reach. 

Waiting  for  a  moment  until  the  reflectors  pointed 
directly  toward  Beacon  Ledge,  I  pressed  upon  the 
crank,  and  thereby  suspended  the  revolution. 
Thus  inert  and  motionless  I  held  the  machinery  for 
a  full  minute,  and  then,  lifting  the  rod,  allowed  the 
circuit  to  recommence,  and  gazed  anxiously  toward 
the  other  lighthouse.  For  a  moment,  no  response  ; 
but  then,  as  its  reflectors  came  slowly  around  and 
pointed  toward  me,  they,  too,  ceased  in  their 
motion  for  a  full  minute.  With  that  my  heart  ex- 
ulted. My  signal  for  conversation  had  been  seen 
and  answered.  So  far,  all  went  satisfactorily,  and 
there  was  nothing  left  but  to  commence  the  main 
business  of  the  night. 

What  should  I  talk  to  Jessie  about  ?  I  could  not 
frame  any  lengthy  sentences,  indeed — for  that, 
time  and  patience  would  not  suffice.  Nor  could  I 
tell  her  any  especial  piece  of  news  :  all  such 
matters  had  already  been  discussed  between  us. 
Nor  did  it  seem  any  thing  but  ridiculous  to  repeat, 
in  such  a  labored  manner,  any  of  the  ordinary 
commonplaces  about  health,  or  the  time,  or 
weather.  The  most  I  could  do,  in  fact,  would  be 


"  —  MAS  HAS  COME:'  171 

to  telegraph  some  short  and  simple  idea,  expressive 
of  my  affection  for  her,  and  of  my  ardent  faith  in 
its  coming  realization.  This  she  would  compre- 
hend, and,  like  a  proverb,  it  would  tell,  in  brief,  a 
whole  long  story. 

Watching  until  the  reflectors  again  came  round, 
I  seized  the  lever,  held  the  machinery  in  suspense 
for  a  whole  minute,  and  then  set  it  free  again. 
Another  circuit,  and  this  time  I  arrested  the  motion 
for  only  fifteen  seconds.  A  third,  and  here  again 
a  suspension  of  a  whole  minute.  In  this  way,  by 
putting  the  three  circuits  together,  I  had  contrived 
to  spell  out  the  letter  C— as  in  a  telegraph  office 
the  operator  would  write  a  letter,  though  probably 
not  the  same  one,  with  a  long,  a  short,  and  a  long 
scratch  upon  the  paper  slip. 

Again  :  and  now  I  let  the  reflectors  remain 
stationary,  first,  for  a  minute,  then  twice  for  fifteen 
seconds  each.  This — a  long,  and  two  short  arres- 
tations— spelled  the  letter  H.  So,  little  by  little,  I 
wrote  out  with  the  lighthouse  flash  against  the 
dark  sky  the  simple  sentence, 

"  Christmas  is  coming." 

It  was  plain  and  expressive.  It  spoke  to  Jessie 
of  the  approaching  day,  when  she  should  make  her 
long-deferred  decision,  and  when  I  so  ardently 
anticipated  that  she  would  be  mine.  It  reminded 
her  that  the  time  was  now  only  a  few  hours  distant. 
It  told  her  that  even  those  few  hours  were  almost 


172  " MAS  HAS   COME." 

too  long  for  me  to  wait.  It  was  a  short  message, 
indeed,  but  the  difficulty  of  thus  spelling  it  out, 
letter  by  letter,  made  it  long  enough.  Already, 
ere  I  had  finished,  my  arm,  as  well  as  my  atten- 
tion, was  fatigued  ;  and  when,  at  last,  I  made  the 
long  signal  of  conclusion,  and  gained,  in  reply, 
the  token  that  I  had  been  comprehended,  I  felt 
that  I  had  done  enough  for  one  night,  at  least. 

Then,  remaining  awake,  with  some  difficulty, 
until  morning  came,  I  put  out  the  lights,  and  went 
down  to  see  after  old  Barry.  He  was  better  ;  his 
rheumatism  had  not  troubled  him  as  much  as  h6 
had  feared  ;  he  would  get  up,  and  himself  trim  the 
lights  for  the  coming  night,  and  I  had  better  lie 
down  and  rest.  Which  I  gladly  did,  for  I  was 
tired,  indeed,  and  began  to  have  a  suspicion  that, 
though  lighthouse  telegraphy  might  be  a  pleasant 
excitement  for  once,  it  was  inferior,  as  a  steady 
means  of  communication,  to  the  regularly  estab- 
lished mails.  So,  I  slept  the  sleep  of  the  weary,  if 
not  of  the  just  ;  and  the  morning  was  far  advanced 
when  I  awoke. 

The  new  day  was  not  stormy,  as  I  had  partly 
anticipated  it  would  be,  nor  yet  was  it  clear  and 
beautiful.  The  gale  seemed  slowly  coming  on, 
but  had  not  quite  reached  us.  The  sky  was  thick 
with  scudding  clouds,  racing  wildly  from  north  to 
south  ;  the  air  was  cold  and  cheerless  ;  the  sea 
rolled  in  with  a  more  powerful  swell  than  usual, 
breaking  along  the  shore  with  a  boom  like  that  of 
heavy  artillery.  The  gulls  flew  to  and  fro,  scream- 


"  —  MAS  HAS  COME:'  173 

ing  and  unsettled  ;  a  few  coasting  schooners, 
apprehensive  of  mischief,  had  put  into  the  land- 
locked bay  and  there  lay  at  anchor,  awaiting  better 
weather ;  and  in  one  place,  the  fishermen  were 
dragging  their  boats  away  back  to  the  foot  of  the 
bluff,  so  as  to  avoid  the  still  heavier  swell  which 
must  erelong  come.  Yet,  for  all  that,  the  storm 
had  not  commenced,  and  I  could  easily  have 
walked  over  to  Beacon  Ledge  and  made  my  daily 
visit. 

But  still  I  forbore.  I  had  already  told  Jessie 
that  I  should  not  see  her  again  until  I  came  to 
hear  the  decision  of  my  fate,  and  I  resolved  that  I 
would  be  firm.  Would  it  not,  beside,  spoil  the 
whole  romance  of  our  midnight  correspondence 
were  1  to  visit  her  again  so  soon  ?  I  had  signalled 
a  greeting  to  her.  What  a  lowering  of  sentiment 
it  would  be  if  now  I  were  to  obtain  her  response  in 
commonplace  manner,  by  mere  word  of  mouth, 
instead  of  by  the  bright  sheen  of  the  lighthouse 
itself  !  Nay,  that  would  never  do.  So,  killing  the 
heavy  hours  as  best  I  could,  I  loitered  up  and 
down  the  beach,  shooting  at  the  gulls  as  ineffec- 
tually as  I  had  before  shot  at  the  sand-pipers  ; 
watching  the  course  of  a  few  frightened  vessels, 
which  still  continued  to  make  for  that  little  harbor 
of  refuge  ;  and,  like  a  child,  making  sand-forts  on 
the  beach,  for  the  pleasure  of  seeing  them  washed 
away  again  by  the  next  heavy  swell. 

Night  came  at  last  ;  and,  as  before,  I  volunteered 
to  relieve  Barry  of  the  care  of  the  lamps,  and 


174  " MAS  HAS  COME." 

allow  him  additional  opportunity  to  nurse  his 
rheumatism.  As  before,  he  made  some  feeble  show 
of  hesitation,  by  way  of  reconciling  his  mind  to 
the  proffered  rest,  and  then  readily  succumbed. 

"  Be  it  so,  Georgy,  my  boy,"  he  said.  '  That 
is,  if  you  are  not  already  too  tired.  But  I  don't 
feel  as  bad  now  as  last  night,  and  may  yet  crawl 
up  and  relieve  you." 

"  Take  it  easy,  Barry,"  I  said.  "  It  is  not  much 
trouble  for  me.  I  could  stand  it  this  fashion  for  a 
week." 

With  that  I  left  him  alone  in  his  snuggery,  and 
climbed  the  stairs  to  the  top.  As  upon  the  previous 
evening,  I  lighted  the  lamps,  set  the  machine  in  mo- 
tion, and  then  curled  myself  down  in  a  corner  of  the 
floor  to  rest  till  midnight.  I  did  not  at  once  fall 
asleep,  however.  The  gale,  which  had  been  pre- 
parjng  for  the  last  thirty  hours,  now  began  to  come 
in  force,  disturbing  me  with  the  sound  of  the  wind 
— whistling  shrilly  through  every  crack  and  crevice 
— while  the  lighthouse  itself  constantly  trembled 
with  the  blast.  Even  at  that  height,  I  could  hear 
the  sullen  dash  of  the  breakers  against  the  shore  ; 
and  once  I  could  see,  by  the  tremulous  movement 
of  lights  far  out  to  the  eastward,  that  a  large 
steamer  was  passing,  and  was  laboring  toilsomely 
with  a  more  than  usually  heavy  sea.  She  was  in 
no  danger,  however,  and  gradually  passed  away 
from  my  line  of  vision.  Then,  at  last,  I  fell 
asleep,  though  not  into  the  soft,  quiet  slumber 
which  I  usually  enjoyed.  Even  in  my  dreams  the 


"  —  MAS  HAS  COME:'  175 

tempest  followed  me,  filling  my  mind  with  dis- 
torted imaginings.  The  old  stories,  which  I  had 
so  often  heard  and  of  late  had  forgotten,  about 
pirates,  and  wrecks,  and  wreckers,  and  cruelties 
perpetrated  upon  the  beach,  now  seemed  to  take 
actual  life  and  reality.  I  could  see  the  dismasted 
vessels  struggling  among  the  breakers,'  and  the 
rows  of  hard,  fierce,  expectant  faces  lining  the 
shore,  and  awaiting  the  turning  up  of  the  dead 
bodies.  I  was  a  dead  body  myself,  even,  and  was 
being  washed  up  on  the  beach,  already  drowned 
beyond  hope  of  resuscitation,  and  yet  strangely 
conscious  of  all  that  went  on  around  me.  A  hand 
was  placed  roughly  upon  me,  as  I  lay  motionless 
upon  the  sand.  Then,  gaining  new  life,  I  cried 
aloud,  and,  waking,  found  old  Barry  leaning  over 
me,  and  shaking  me  into  consciousness. 

"  Look  over  yonder,  Georgy,  my  boy,  at  the 
Beacon  Point,"  he  said.  "  See  how  strangely  the 
lights  are  acting.  What  do  you  make  of  it  all  ?" 

I  looked,  and  saw  that  the  reflectors  were  point- 
ing, motionless,  toward  me — resting  there  for  a  full 
minute  ;  then  they  swept  around  slowly  in  their 
accustomed  course,  and  again  paused  for  a  minute. 
Thereby  I  deciphered  the  letter  M,  and  started  into 
full  and  instant  animation.  I  had,  of  course, 
overslept  myself,  and  thereby,  probably,  lost  a 
portion  of  Jessie's  dear  message.  How  much  of 
it,  indeed  ? 

"  What  is  the  hour,  Barry  ?" 

"Half-past    twelve,"    he   said.      "But  what  do 


176  " MAS  HAS   COME." 

you  make  of  yonder  business  ?  Is  it  some  accident 
to  the  works,  do  you  think  ? — or  has  old  Bark- 
stead  gone  on  a  spree  again,  as  they  say  he  once 
did,  and  is  now  playing  fast  and  loose  with  the 
lights  ?" 

While  he  had  been  speaking,  new  revolutions, 
broken,  "by  longer  or  shorter  pauses,  had  suc- 
ceeded ;  and  I  deciphered  the  additional  letters 
A  and  S. 

"  Whatever  it  may  be,  Barry,"  I  then  answered 
— forcing  myself  to  attend  to  him,  and  feeling  a 
little  guilty  for  being  obliged  to  keep  the  mys- 
terious secret  from  him — "  don't  you  see  that  noth- 
ing can  be  done  about  it,  now  ?  Go,  therefore,  to 
bed  again.  This  cold  lantern  is  no  place  for  you 
to  remain  in.  And  to-morrow,  bright  and  early, 
I  will  go  out  myself,  and  ascertain  what  may  be 
the  matter." 

With  that,  I  gently  pushed  Barry  down  the  first 
two  or  three  steps,  and  heard  him  go  grumbling 
and  puffing  the  rest  of  the  way  to  his  own  nook. 
Meanwhile,  the  bright  signalling  from  Beacon  Point 
went  on — letter  after  letter — until,  at  last,  I  read 
out  the  whole  sentence  : 

" mas  has  come.'' 


"  Christmas  has  come  !"  This,  of  course,  was 
the  completion  of  the  message  ;  for  it  was  not  now 
difficult  to  supply  those  letters  which,  through  my 
tardy  awakening,  I  had  missed.  My  heart 


MAS  HAS  COME."  177 


bounded  high  with  joy  and  exultation.  San- 
guinely  as  I  had  anticipated  a  favorable  verdict  at 
Jessie's  hands,  my  utmost  hopes  had  never  asked 
for  such  a  frank  and  instant  admission  of  her  pref- 
erence as  this.  To  be  reminded,  at  the  very  first 
stroke  of  the  midnight  hour,  that  the  important 
day  for  decision  had  arrived  :  what  was  this  but 
being  told  that  the  day  should  bring  its  blessing 
with  if? — that  Jessie  herself  had  awaited  its  ap- 
proach as  eagerly  as  I  had,  feeling  as  acutely  the 
delay? — that  now  there  should  be  no  more  dis- 
guise or  misconstruction  between  us  ?  Christmas 
had  come  !  It  was,  indeed,  a  frank  and  noble  re- 
sponse to  my  message  of  the  night  before,  telling 
me  that  now,  at  last,  she  had  surrendered  her  heart 
to  my  safe-keeping.  Had  it  been  possible,  I  would 
have  run  over  at  once  to  Beacon  Ledge,  and 
pressed  her  to  my  heart.  But,  of  course,  not  the 
tempest  merely  forbade.  I  must  wait  until  the 
more  suitable  time  of  morning,  still  many  hours 
off.  Therefore,  composing  myself  as  well  as  pos- 
sible for  quiet  waiting,  I  sat,  during  the  remainder 
of  the  night,  musing  over  my  pleasant  prospects, 
and  watching  anxiously  for  the  first  ray  of  morn- 
ing. 

It  came  at  last — later  than  usual,  for  the  tempest 
had  not  yet  abated,  and  the  approach  of  day  was 
to  be  noted  rather  by  the  gradual  lightening  of  the 
atmosphere,  than  by  any  gleam  of  eastern  dawn. 
Then  I  extinguished  the  lights,  stopped  the 
machinery,  and  descended  to  old  Barry. 


178  " MAS  HAS   COME." 

"  I  will  now  cross  over  to  the  Beacon  Ledge,"  I 
said,  "  and  find  out  what  was  the  matter  last 
night." 

"Without  your  breakfast,  boy?"  growled  the 
old  man. 

But  what  did  I  care  for  breakfast  !  My  heart 
was  too  full  of  joy  to  care  for  any  carnal  needs  ; 
and,  therefore,  with  some  lame  excuse  for  my 
hurry,  and  a  guilty  sense  of  continued  deception 
weighing  upon  my  mind,  I  set  off,  promising  a 
speedy  return.  The  task  that  I  had  set  myself  was 
no  trifle,  and  I  could  not  wonder  at  the  solemn 
shake  of  the  head  with  which  Barry  watched  my 
departure.  The  tempest  was  at  its  height,  and  a 
blinding  sheet  of  rain  and  ocean-spray  drove  wildly 
into  my  face  at  each  step.  The  breakers  dashed 
furiously  upon  the  beach — so  furiously,  indeed, 
that  the  usual  route  along  the  hard-pressed  sand 
had  become  impassable,  and  I  was  obliged  to  take 
a  higher  path  through  the  loose,  yielding  pebbles. 
But  I  persevered  bravely  and  determinedly,  though 
so  sorely  fettered  in  my  steps,  and  buffeted  in  my 
face,  and,  after  nearly  two  hours,  reached  the  other 
lighthouse. 

I  entered  without  ceremony,  and,  in  the  angle  of 
the  first  flight  of  stairs — our  usual  trysting-place 
ever  since  the  lateness  of  the  season  had  denied  us 
the  rock  by  the  sea-side — I  found  dear  Jessie.  But 
she  was  not  alone.  Beside  her,  and  too  near,  I 
thought,  sat  a  pleasant-faced  young  man,  who,  at 
my  approach,  arose,  and  with  a  miserably  counter- 


MAS  HAS   COME."  179 


feited  affectation  of  indifference,  sauntered  away. 
Jessie  also  arose,  and  with  whitened  face,  came  for- 
ward. 

"  Why  are  you  here  ?"  she  murmured.  "  Did  I 
not  signal  it  all  to  you,  so  that  you  might  know 
the  truth,  and  spare  both  yourself  and  me  this 
meeting  ?" 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  I  gasped. 

"  Did  you  not  understand  me,  after  all,  kind 
friend  ?  You  know,  indeed,  that  I  once  told  you 
how  I  had  loved  another.  I  had  no  expectation  of 
seeing  him  again,  it  is  true.  He  was  far  away 
with  his  vessel  when  we  departed  from  our  little 
village,  leaving,  as  you  know,  not  a  trace  behind 
us  ;  and,  therefore,  there  was  no  way  in  which  the 
secret  of  our  present  retreat  could  be  learned  by 
any  one.  Nor  could  I  write  to  him  and  tell  him, 
for  he  had  not  yet  spoken  to  me  of  love,  and  I  did 
not  know  but  what  he  would  choose,  in  the  end, 
to  forget  me.  But  Fate,  after  all,  is  sometimes 
kind.  Searching  for  me,  without  any  trace  to  guide 
him,  he  had  almost  despaired,  when,  the  night 
before  this  last,  coming  in  from  sea,  he  saw  the 
Penguin  Light  ;  and  noticing  how,  while  you  were 
signalling  to  me,  at  times  it  stopped  for  a  moment, 
he  thought  it  was  the  Upper  Roadstead  Light,  and 
so  ran  in  and  made  this  little  harbor  by  mistake. 
Thereby  it  was  that  we  have  chanced  to  meet 
again." 

"  But,  Jessie,  you  signalled  to  me  that — " 

"  I  signalled  that  Thomas  had  come.     Did  you 


i8o  " MAS  HAS   COME." 

not  comprehend  ?  Or  can  it  be  that  I  had  never 
happened  to  mention  his  name  to  you  ?" 

"  Ah  !"  I  feebly  exclaimed,  the  light  breaking 
in  upon  me  ;  "  Thomas  was  the  word,  then,  was 
it?  I  thought — but  no  matter  now  for  my 
thoughts.  Well,  farewell,  Jessie.  There  can  be 
no  good  word  or  wish  that  any  one  may  give  you 
that  will  not  always  be  uttered  twofold  from  my 
heart.  You  know  it,  kind  friend,  do  you  not  ?" 

"  I  know  it,  George,  indeed,"  she  said. 

And,  tearing  myself  from  her,  I  returned  to  city 
life.  There  I  gave  myself  once  more  up  to  busi- 
ness and  its  cares,  in  hopes  of  drowning  my  disap- 
pointment ;  and  now,  after  long  months  of  sad 
regret,  I  have  nearly  succeeded,  and  have  become 
myself  again.  But,  at  times,  I  lie  awake  in  the 
middle  of  the  night  and  listen  to  the  city's  roar, 
and  in  the  sound  I  seem  to  hear  once  more  the 
play  of  breakers  on  the  shore  at  Beacon  Ledge  ; 
and  then  I  think,  with  sadness,  how  different 
might  have  been  my  lot,  had  I  not  so  foolishly 
determined  to  utter,  with  the  lighthouse  lamps, 
and  so  many  miles  across,  those  words  of  greeting 
which  should  have  been  softly  whispered  instead, 
by  lowly  pleading  lips,  into  closely  attentive, 
willing  ears. 


GEORGE  W.  CABLE'S  NOVELS. 


"I  have  read  all  thy  stories  and  like  them  very  much.  Thee  has 
found  an  untrodden  field  of  romance  in  New  Orleans;  and  I  think 
thee  the  writer  whom  we  have  so  long  waited  to  see  come  up  in 
the  South." — The  Poet  Whittier  to  Mr.  Cable. 

THE  GRANDISSIMES.  A  Story  of  Creole  Life.  With  a 
frontispiece,  "THE  CABILDO  OF  1883."  One  vol.,  I2mo. 
Price  reduced  to  $1.25. 

OLD  CREOLE  DAYS.  With  a  frontispiece,  "THE  CAFE  DES 
EXILES."  One  vol.,  12010,  uniform  with  The  Grandissimes, 
$1.25. 

Popular  Edition  of  Old  Creole  Days.  Two  Series,  sold  separately, 
30  cents  each.  The  same  in  cloth,  gilt  top,  with  frontispieces, 
75  cents  each. 

"Here  is  true  art  at  work.  Here  is  poetry,  pathos,  tragedy, 
humor.  Here  is  an  entrancing  style.  Here  is  a  new  field,  one 
full  of  passion  and  beauty.  Here  is  a  local  color,  with  strong  draw- 
ing. Here,  in  this  little  volume,  is  life,  breath,  and  blood.  The 
author  of  this  book  is  an  artist,  and  over  such  a  revelation  one  may 
be  permitted  strong  words," — Cincinnati  Times. 


NEWPORT. 

By  GEORGE  PARSONS  LATHROP. 

i  vol.,  i2mo Paper,  50  cents;  cloth,  $1.25 

"This  is  undoubtedly  the  best  picture  of  Newport  life  that 
has  been  given,  not  only  for  its  characteristic  amusements, 
customs,  and  individualities,  but  also  its  mental,  moral,  and 
social  atmosphere." — Boston  Globe. 


*#*  For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  tr  sent,  jostjaid,   uj>o»  *tceij>*  of  4rice  by 

CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS,    Publishers, 

743  AND  745  BROADWAY,  NEW  YORK. 


EDWARD  EGGLESTON'S  NOVELS. 


Mr.  Eggleston  is  one  of  the  "very  few  American  novelists  who  hart 
succeeded  in  giving  to  their  works  a  genuine  savor  of  the  soil,  a  dis- 
tinctively American  character.  His  "RoXY,"  "  HOOSIER  SCHOOL- 
WASTER,"  "CIRCUIT  RIDER,"  and  the  rest,  are  home-spun  and  native  in 
all  their  features.  The  scene  of  the  stories  is  the  Western  Reserve,  and 
the  characters  are  types  of  the  pioneers  in  the  territory  now  comprised  in 
Indiana  and  Ohio. 

ROXY.     One  vol.,  I2mo,  cloth,  with  twelve  full-page  illustrations  from 
original  designs  by  WALTER  SHIRLAW.     Price,  $1.50. 

"  One  of  the  ablest  of  recent  American  novels,  and  indeed  in  all 
recent  works  of  fiction." — The  London  Spectator. 

THE    CIRCUIT    RIDER.     A   Tale   of  the    Heroic   Age.     One 

vol.,  I2mo,  extra  cloth,  illustrated  with  over  thirty  characteristic 
drawings  by  G.  G.  WHITE  and  SOL.  EYTINGE.     Price,  $1.50. 

"The  best  American  story,  and  the  most  thoroughly  American  one 
that  has  appeared  for  years." — Philadelphia  Evening  Bulletin. 

THE  HOOSIER  SCHOOLMASTER.    Illustrated.    I2mo.   Price, 

$1.25. 

THE     MYSTERY     OF     METROPOLISVILLE.       Illustrated. 
I2mo.     Price,  $1.50. 

THE    END    OF   THE   WORLD.     A   Love   Story.     Illustrated, 
laino.     Price,  $1.50. 

COMPLETE  SETS  (IN  BOX)  $7.25. 

THE    HOOSIER    SCHOOL    BOY.     With  full-page  illustrations. 
I2ino.     Price,  $1.00. 

THE  HOOSIER  SCHOOL  BOY,  as  its  title  shows,  depicts  some  of  the 
characters  of  boy  life,  years  ago,  on  the  Ohio ;  characteristics,  how- 
ever, that  were  not  peculiar  to  that  section  only.  The  story  presents 
a  vivid  and  interesting  picture  of  the  difficulties  which  in  those  days 
beset  the  path  of  the  youth  aspiring  for  an  education. 


*#*  For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent,  post-paid,  upon  receipt  of  price,  by 

CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS,    Publishers, 

743  AND  745  BROADWAY,  NEW  YORK. 


DR.  J.  G.  HOLLAND'S  POPULAR  NOVELS. 


Each  one  volume,  16m  o,  cloth,  $1.25. 


"  To  those  who  love  a  pure  diction,  a  healthful  tone,  and  thought  that 
leads  up  to  higher  and  belter  aims,  that  gives  brighter  color  to  some 
of  the  hard,  dull  phases  of  life,  that  awakens  the  mind  to  renewed 
activity,  and  makes  one  mentally  better,  the  prose  and  poetical  works 
cf  Dr.  Holland  will  prove  an  ever  new,  ever  welcome  source  from  -which. 

to   draw." — NEW     HAVEN    PALLADIUM. 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.     A  Study  in  a  Story. 

"  Nicholas  Minturn  is  the  most  real  novel,  or  rather  life-story, 
yet  produced  by  any  American  writer." — Philadelphia  Press. 

SEVENOAKS.     A  Story  of  To-Day. 

"  As  a  story,  it  is  thoroughly  readable ;  the  action  is  rapid,  but  not 
hurried;  there  is  no  flagging,  and  no  dullness." — Christian  Union, 

ARTHUR  BONNICASTLE.     A  Story  of  American  Life. 

"  The  narrative  is  pervaded  by  a  fine  poetical  spirit  that  is  alive  to 
the  subtle  graces  of  character,  as  well  as  to  the  tender  influences  of 
natural  scenes.  ...  Its  chief  merits  must  be  placed  in  its  graphic 
and  expressive  portraitures  of  character,  its  tenderness  and  delicacy 
of  sentiment,  its  touches  of  heartfelt  pathos,  and  the  admirable  wis- 
dom and  soundness  of  its  ethical  suggestions." — N.  Y.  Tribune. 

THE  BAY  PATH.     A  Tale  of  New  England  Colonial  Life. 

"A  conscientious  and  careful  historical  picture  of  early  New  Eng- 
land days,  and  will  well  repay  perusal." — Boston  Sat.  JLve.  Gazette. 

MISS  GILBERT'S  CAREER.     An  American  Story. 

The  life  and  incidents  are  taken  in  about  equal  proportions  from 
the  city  and  country — the  commercial  metropolis  and  a  New  Hamp- 
shire village.  It  is  said  that  the  author  has  drawn  upon  his  owa 
early  experiences  and  history  for  a  large  part  of  the  narrative. 


fc^*  For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent,  post-paid,  upon  receipt  of  price,  by 

CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS,    Publishers, 

£43  AND  745  BROADWAY,  NEW  YORK. 


MRS.  FRANCES  HODGSON  BURNETTS  NOVELS. 


THAT  LASS  O'  LOWRIE'S.     One  vol.,  I2mo,  cloth,  illustrated, 
$1.50;  paper,  90  cents. 

"  We  know  of  no  more  powerful  work  from  a  woman's  hand  in  tha 
English  language." — Boston  Transcript. 

"The  best  original  novel  that   has  appeared  in  this  country  for 
many  years." — Phil.  Press. 


HAWORTH'S.     One  vol.,  i2mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  $1.50. 

"  Haworth's  is  a  product  of  genius  of  a  very  high  order." — N.   Y. 
Evening  Post. 

"It  is  but  faint  praise  to  speak  of  HAWORTH'S  as  merely  a  good 
novel.     It  is  one  of  the  few  great  novels." — Hartford  Conrant. 


LOUISIANA.     One  vol.,  lamo,  illustrated,  $1.00. 

"  We  commend  this  book  as  the  product  of  a  skillful,  talented, 
well-trained  pen.  Mrs.  Burnett's  admirers  are  already  numbered  by 
the  thousand,  and  every  new  work  like  this  one  can  only  add  to  their 
number."  —  Chicago  Tribune. 


EARLIER  STORIES.     Each,  one  vol.,  i6mo,  paper. 
Pretty  Polly  Pemberton.     Kathleen.     Each,  40  cents. 

Lindsay's  Luck.     Theo.     Miss  Crespigny.     Each,  30  cents. 

"Each  of  these  narratives  has  a  distinct  spirit,  and  can  be  profit- 
ably read  by  all  classes  of  people.  They  are  told  not  only  with  true 
art,  but  deep  pathos." — Boston  Post. 


#*  For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent,  post-paid,  upon  receipt  of  price,  by 

CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS,  Publishers, 

743  AND  745  BROADWAY,  NEW  YORK. 


A     000  074  601     6 


